


red blood, blue veins

by Anonymous



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Feels, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Hospitals, Keith is a big fan of motorbikes and streetball, Lance is a Space Nerd, Lancs is dying, Langst, M/M, Nonbinary Pidge | Katie Holt, Slow Burn, TW: suicidal thoughts, Terminal Illnesses, ish, klangst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-03-09 14:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13483203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Lance keeps up a brave face. He smiles when he's upset, laughs when crying sounds a whole lot better. Breakdowns are a behind-closed-doors type of thing for him. So no one has to see how the self he’s created and the person he’s become through all of this can shatter in an instant.  He hides his insecurities and anxieties behind carefully crafted masks. Somehow, it makes it all easier to deal with. Fake it ‘till you make it?or; a hospital alternate universe where Lance has a terminal illness, and Keith finds himself along for the inevitable angst train of a ride(discontinued)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this a few months back. I’ve done some min or editing here, and I may even finish the story this time.
> 
> I hope to be able to do weekly updates.
> 
> NOTE: TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDAL THOUGHTS in chapter 1
> 
> Also, I know nothing about medicine besides online research and asking people who know more then I do.
> 
> If my portrayal of these issues disturbs or runs anyone the wrong way, people tell me. I have not experienced the things that I am writing about, and I someone who has finds my writing of them harmful, please tell me:

  
Chapter 1  
Lance McClain Is an Idiot (and So Is Keith Kogane)

Lance keeps up a brave face. He smiles when he's upset, laughs when crying sounds a whole lot better. Breakdowns are a behind-closed-doors type of thing for him. So no one has to see how the self he’s created and the person he’s become through all of this can shatter in an instant. He hides his insecurities and anxieties behind carefully crafted masks. Somehow, it makes it all easier to deal with. Fake it ‘till you make it?

But it isn’t like he's faking it 100% of the time. He's actually quite an optimistic person, usually. He’s always had a high pain tolerance and a positive outlook. He’s fundamentally a “glass half full” type of guy. The reality is more like that he's faking it the 10% of the time that he feels god-awful. He only ever tells consequential lies if he thinks that someone’s gonna get hurt unless he hides something or turns away or makes an empty promise. Such a self-sacrificing attitude is only natural for the middle child of three and the beloved son of parents who gave up _that much_ just to see their little boy smile. It’s only natural that Lance McClain try and fall as gracefully as possible. He tells himself, _don't ever let them see how much you're hurting. Nothing good ever comes out of it._

-

Blinding white dominates the hospital room. White is supposed to make everything look neat, orderly, spacious, but to Lance, the color has come to feel more severe and headache-y the longer he’s spent staring at it on the wall (and the ceiling and the floor.) In the room, there's shiny linoleum tiles in a checker pattern of indigo and dove’s wing, embedded flush LED ceiling lights patterned in a rows of long rectangles, wires (so many wires), and a window with a drooping little aloe plant gathering dust and shriveling in the springtime Florida sun. Lance feels like he can relate to the plant on a spiritual level. The room is pretty drab and sad. Life can be pretty drab and sad. _Aaand there’s the first hilariously angsty thought of the day._ _Tumblr will love this shit._ Lance thinks, snorting softly, amused at himself, as he sits up in bed and reaches for his phone.

Still, he’s lucky to have his own room now, drab sadness and all. Most of the kids down is pediatrics have to share rooms in the long, noisy ward on the second floor. He’s been there before. Where the nurses wear pretty colors with floral designs and where washed-out blue curtains on a track in the ceiling separate hospital beds lined neatly along a long wall. Before, he'd been able to hear the discomforted whines, heavy coughing, and muffled sobs of all of the other children around him. Not fun. Not fun at all. Late into the night, he'd lie awake counting the labored hacking from the pneumonia patient two beds down.

So maybe this private room with at least one window and some peace and quiet is an upgrade. But it's still the hospital. He’s still sick as fuck (and not getting any better.) The place still gives him the same apprehensive, uneasy feeling it has since he first set foot in the lobby on his first visit. Before his life had an expiration date stamped and sealed.

Doctor Allura Altea, Lance’s primary doctor, doesn’t want him to take his meals in his room. She’d rather him stay out of the place so long as he’s having a “good day” and doesn't start anything dramatic or get absurdly lost. Though while he does hate the room, and it’s _not_ like he’s a recluse or something, but he really hates how people stare at him when he's strolling around the halls getting acquainted with gurneys and nurse stations and obeying Allura by not sitting on his ass and binging 2007 anime for the 5th time in a week or scrolling through Tumblr. You’d think the hospital visitors would get used to an insanely attractive (read: noticeably sick as frick but still easy on the eyes, speaking of, _have you seen my pretty blue eyes?_ ) teenage guy marching around the cardiology ward.

So for the sake of appearances, (or probably just because Allura finally gave into Lance’s incessant whining), she lets him wander around in jeans and a hoodie. It helps with the illusion of normality. Less people give him looks.

Lance has been in the hospital for two months. Two months straight, at least. He had a little stint in the outside world before that, but for the last three years or so, the damn hospital hasn’t been rid of him for more than three months at a time.

And so, over the years, the neighborhood terminal teen with blue eyes and bad jokes has made a few hospital buddies. Hospital atmosphere may be icky, but the people are wonderful. The nurses love him. He takes time to try and make each of them smile.

Coran, his primary nurse saw through his charade from day one and has taken to babying him. Allura thinks it's uncalled for, but Lance honestly appreciates Coran for being his honorary hospital uncle. (Complete with the bad puns.) The McClain clan (and Lance’s real papá) lives three hundred miles away in a small seaside town. Lance hasn't seen home for two years. When he’s not in hospital, he stays with his aunt Charo so he can be close to the hospital. Just in case.

Aunt Charo with the two cats who used to be an exotic dancer; now she’s a freelance illustrator and a life model at the community college. She’s one of Lance’s role models. Her and Beyoncé used to be Lance’s icons. Now he basically canonizes anyone who's made it past twenty years of age without going all fatal cardiac arrest on everyone.

-

The hospital has two cafeterias. The cafeteria on the fifth floor always feels more alive than the one on the second floor. The south facing wall is made entirely of tinted glass. Past the city skyline, Lance can almost see the ocean. In comparison, next to the the second floor cafeteria, there’s the ICU (and nobody likes the ICU.)

Neither of Lance’s two close friends are sick like he is. Hunk’s got terrible pollen allergies and Pidge has OCD, but they both have perfectly great lives outside in the real world. They’re supportive friends and wonderful people. Sometimes, Lance regrets even making friends with normal people. Usually, he’s just thankful that they’re all there for each other. Plus, how could they resist his charm?

Hunk and Pidge meet Lance on weekends for a late lunch. It’s the first Saturday of the month, so Hunk has a longer lunch break. The food-enthusiast, bandana-wearing baker works at the cafe on the first floor atrium, gets paid good money (for a highschool student) baking muffins and brewing espresso. Hunk brings Lance sweet things every weekend. They meet at 1 o’clock sharp on the fifth floor near the lunch line. Pidge meanders over as they please, usually arriving fashionably late, carting a large bag is foreign snack foods in tow, complete the trio.

On this particular Saturday, however, Pidge is early. They’re waiting for Lance, arms crossed over an important looking binder with papers sticking out of the top. Lance frowns at this new, punctual, tteokbokki-less Pidge. An offensively orange colored drink peers out of their comically massive pockets, alongside a bag of peach candies and some loose celery sticks.

As Hunk makes his brownie and cookie and muffin laden entrance, he gestures to the usual table. Lance gives him a melodramatic wave and a smile, foregoing the lunch line. The limp cling-wrapped sandwiches, green jello-like goop (is that even food?) and oily soup are eyed with disdain by both Pidge and Lance. Plus, who wants normal food (or grossly lime colored food) when there’s brownies? _Honestly_.

Pidge and Hunk slide into the plastic bench. Lance doesn’t waste time sitting down before he attacks the cookies.

“Yo Pidgey, what’ve you been working on in your mad scientist lab?” A cookie crumb sticks to Lance’s chin.

“Ew. Gross, dude.” Pidge rolls their eyes at the way Lance speaks through a mouthful of fudge.

Hunk makes a concerned face, “Please slow down, you’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“You, my friend, are the one with chronic indigestion problems. I’m sure nobody’s ever died of brownie overdose.” Lance says through another mouthful. Hunk has a sensitive stomach and Pidge once told a story of how he threw up after a go on the merry-go-round. “And even if someone has been murdered by baked chocolate-y heaven on earth, that sounds like an epic way to go.”

Pidge takes their own brownie, consuming it with les zeal than Lance. (If only to not be a hypocrite. They brownies are hella tasty.) “About my mad scientist lab, I don’t actually have a project as of right now. Matt is doing something in secret. He says it’s classified.” They shrug. “So I’m just researching some stuff online.”

Lance stretches like a cat. The balls of his heels bounce on the floor. “Cool, cool,” he nods to Pidge. He’s pointedly ignoring the shaky-weak feeling in his body. It’s nothing new. Really. “You guys wanna go up on the roof?” He suggests. “Allura won’t let me up anymore. She just doesn’t understand the benefits of sunlight and fresh air on my flawless complexion.” He cups his face in his hands and flutters his eyelashes obnoxiously.

“Wait, if your complexion is ‘flawless,’ why would you need to benefit it more?” Pidge reasons, raising an eyebrow over their circular wire rim glasses.

“Not helping,” Lance pouts as he gathers the trash off the vinyl tabletop, ignoring the increasingly worsening dizziness pounding in his skull.

-

Lance leads the way to the roof. Pidge and Hunk follow, exchanging a look that means “better make sure he doesn't do something stupid or hurt himself”. Their banter echoes loudly in the concrete stairwell.

“Are you going to apply for the engineering program?” Pidge asks Hunk as Lance swings on the railings and pretends the world isn’t spinning and swimming in his eyes more and more with each passing second.

Hunk nods, “yeah. It's out of state, but I might get a full scholarship this year.”

“Neat,” Lance says, pushing open the heavy double doors. The breeze blows down the stairwell.

Pidge shivers. “Should've brought my hoodie,” they mutter sourly, gathering their t-shirt around them self and holding the binder like it’s a shield against the wind.

Weeds, AC units, and a lonely set of plastic chairs populate the gravel surface of the roof. There’s a thin rail running around the perimeter. Lance breathes in deep and looks up at the sky. The day is overcast and unusually chilly for this time in May. A shaft of sunlight reflects off the skyscraper a few blocks down the street. Everywhere else, clouds knit a patchwork quilt of grey and white overhead.

Now clouds are great and all. They’re broody and fluffy and stuff, but Lance has always been partial to the stars. Distant and philosophical. Too bad light pollution is a thing in this big city. And too bad that Allura makes sure he doesn’t take a midnight stroll up to the roof. He tried once and was grounded (is she even allowed to do that?) for a week.

Lance takes a few uncertain steps towards the edge. Keeping the smile plastered on his face, he looks down at the cars on the street seventy feet below. Pidge and Hunk exchange concerned glances. For a fleeting instant, Lance wonders what it would feel like to jump. Wonders how many times over his hermanita and hermanito could pay their college tuition if the McClain family didn’t have to worry about hundreds of thousands worth of hospital bills. The thought is sickening. It’s heavy as lead in the way it settles in his gut. Lance hasn’t given up on himself yet. Plus, he couldn’t do that to Pidge and Hunk.

He snaps out of it and looks briefly back at his friends.

Hunk places a comforting hand on Lance’s shoulder. His head is spinning and spinning and spinning. The dull aches in his muscles, bones and cranium are steadily intensifying.

“Ouch,” Lance mutters, trying to focus on the distant horizon. A little sliver of the ocean is visible from around a tall office building. Lance feels his legs give out. He falls back.

Pidge yelps, “Lance!” as Hunk catches him.

“Lance, buddy? Lance?”

_Mierda mi vida._

-

Lance McClain is an idiot. Self proclaimed and field tested. He slowly opens his eyes to the angry-worried face of Dr. Allura Altea standing over his bed. His body still aches.

The flush ceiling lights are too bright. There are several monitors beeping behind and around his head. Beds similar to the one he’s laying in line the wall on his right and left hand sides. This is the ICU, he realizes. _What happened?_

 _Did Hunk and Pidge get in trouble? Did I scare them away?_ Allura interrupts him from his worrying by clearing her throat and glaring some more. Are those tears in her eyes? _Shit, what happened?_

“You motherfucking idiot, Lance McClain,” she utters expressionlessly with no real venom.

“I may have made a dumb oopsie, Allura, but I have never fucked anybody’s mother.” He makes an offended face, clutching his chest with the arm not connected to the IV drip. “Who do you think I am?”

The shock and numbness of sleep are beginning to wear off. From his scalp to his fingertips to his toes, the pain, sharp and noticeable, is seeping back. Allura gives him her _stop screwing, around I’m being deadly serious here_ face.

“So, uh, what happened?” Lance asks, letting his arm fall back to rest at his side.

“You passed out.”

“What about after I swooned into Hunk’s arms? You’d never put me in the ICU for just getting a bit tipsy.” Twice in the last two months, Lance has collapsed. It wasn’t _that_ dramatic a deal, was it?

“You were in cardiac arrest. Your heart stopped a few times in the last hour. To be honest, you were looking pretty bad, Lance…” She’s stalling. Lance may not have a job as a lab technician in a fancy research hospital like Pidge. Or know how to assemble IKEA furniture and cars and nifty DIY calculators like Hunk, but he can read people accurately. Especially Allura.

 _“Dejar de dar vueltas_ , Allura. I feel like this is where I ask how long I’ve got left.” The customary casual humor is still soaked into his “I’m totally 100% A-O.K. fine and not scared shitless about all of this” pretense.

“So, um, seriously, how long have I got?” Lance finally drops the smile.

“One year. 12 months. 6 months of relative quality of life if you’re lucky.” She grimaces. “I’ve called your parents already. They’re all driving down. They’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lance doesn’t cry. He’s not quite sure if he can at this point. He wasted so many tears before. On the day of “official diagnosis” while he sat in front of that no-nonsense doctor with the tortoiseshell classes and spaces out of the beginning of the end of his life. He’d been thirteen at the time. The tears fell again on the day that he told his darling hermanita that he’d never leave her. It was one of the the only empty promises he’d ever made. More tears for the the day he accidentally overheard his mamá and papá arguing over the medical bills. How to make payment. What to give up.

So all Lance does is stare at Allura. She offers him a watery smile. It isn’t one of those happy-go-lucky smiles the nurses wear while they inject chemicals into his inner elbow, poking and prodding at his skin. It isn’t like the very very sad smiles his beautiful, brave mamá gives him as she squeezes him hand and strokes his hair and lets him ramble about _the stars_  so the both of them don’t have to think about the real conversations they've been running from since diagnosis. It’s not even like the “I’m so sorry” looks that strangers would give him when they saw the exhaustion in his eyes, gauze on the back of his hand, and the plastic hospital bracelet on his thin wrist. Allura’s smile is cool and quiet and betrays little. The wetness in her eyes remains.

She turns with a start as her pager beeps in her lab coat pocket. “It’s the ER. I gotta go,” she explains, looking guilty as she closes the curtain around him.

A single tear slips over his lower eyelashes and down his cheek. _Traitor_ , he glares down at it. Eventually, exhaustion tugs his eyelids shut and he falls into even more uneasy sleep.

-

Keith Kogane is an idiot. Really, he is. He’s a reckless idiot. But hey, at least he wore his helmet today. If he hadn’t he’d most definitely be dead as a doornail. And maybe that wouldn’t even be such a horrible thing considering his current predicament.

Anyway, it’s really no surprise that he’s been rear ended by a pickup truck whilst minding his own business on his motorbike. After the immediate crash, everything freezes for a heartbeat. And then, pandemonium on sixth street (or maybe seventh). Drivers running out of their cars. Pedestrians fumbling to dial 911. Some screams. Blood. The pickup truck weaves around the sudden standstill and speeds away. An ambulance siren screams several blocks away.

Two hours of surgery to try and fix his sorry ass. Three surgeons. After all is said and done, Keith Kogane has a 50% chance of walking away in six months with zero to few a minor complications. A 30% chance of being paralyzed below the waist. A 10% chance of losing his legs at the knee. A 5% chance of needing a second procedure. A 5% chance of dying in the next 24 hours.

His odds of living are 94.9% better than those of the Cuban teen down the hall. Nurses and doctors and surgeons buzz around Keith until the early hours of the morning.

Lance lies alone until the sun rises. The subdued cheer of 2 sisters and a brother and two concerned parents surround him as he wakes up from his beauty rest.

He squints to make sure it’s them. Then he evens out his breath and pretends to be fast asleep. He doesn’t feel like dealing with their concern. Not now. It's horrible, but to see their faces is something he'll put off for a few more hours, at least.


	2. The Universe in an Asshat (of Epic Proportions)

Lance is startled awake by someone’s body falling hard against his bed and across his legs. A tangle of long dark hair falls across the sheets.

 

“ ¡ Perdón, Lance!” Maria, the little sister of the McClain family yelps as she stands up and pats the rumpled bedsheets down. She smiles at him with the brilliance of the sun. Everything about her is out of place in the hospital. She doesn’t belong  _ here _ . She’s so sweet. Naïve, too. What Lance wouldn’t give for her to never realize exactly why she’s been brought here amid the buzzing and beeping and worried faces. 

 

“It’s alright, hermanita,” Lance says with an affectionate smile, rubbing his eyes and blinking the sleep away.

 

His mother, Rosa, moves to his bedside. “Mi cariño,” she stands beside the bed and leans down to push her son’s cropped hair from his forehead. She kisses his head softly. “You’re awake,” she tries for a smile. Her eyes are pink and her gaze is watery. Lance beams up at her.

 

“Hey everyone!” He waves to his father and brother. Rosa gestures her husband, Naldo, to the bed from where he's leaning stiffly against a support column some meters away, apart from everyone else.

 

“Hijo,” Naldo McClain takes a few tentative paces forward, finding his place at the foot of the bed, holding onto the footboard and meeting his son’s eyes with something akin to caution.

 

“Buenos días, papá,” Lance waves again, his hand curling in a gentle fist as he drops it limply at his side. He’s still smiling; his face muscles are starting to hurt.

 

The family never brings up the call from Allura. They never mention the clear time limit stamped over Lance’s head. Maria hasn’t been told yet. Maybe Rosa will never tell her. Lance secretly hopes she doesn’t. An eight-year-old doesn’t need to know.

 

To break the awkward lapse in conversation, Rory, Lance’s older brother, mentions being accepted to an internship at an elite company.

 

“That’s great, man!” Lance says. “My big bro’s gonna be a hotshot fashion designer,” he says with awe and congratulations. Rory grins at this.

 

Maria picks up with an exciting story about her new mathematics teacher. She elaborated excitedly that Miss Piper actually makes math  _ fun _ . With an impossibly wider gap-toothed smile, she eagerly explains what she’s learning, adding with a giggle, “and every morning she shows us pictures of her funny big dog and her little small cat!”

 

All the rapid-fire Spanish, English and wide gestures are making Lance’s head spin even more. He nods along, hoping he doesn’t look as out-of-it as he feels.

 

They stay for a few more hours. Sometimes the chatter lulls and sometimes Naldo lets a sad look get the better of him. Eventually, Maria starts to complain about how  _ hermano _ never comes home. Throughout it all, everyone pretends that Lance’s grin and numerous reassurances aren’t bold-faced lies. The reading people thing must run in the family, and Rosa, in particular, has always seen right through her son.

 

Lance’s parents finally herd Maria out of the bedside area. Little kids aren’t even generally allowed in the ICU, but the hospital makes an exception so long as Maria wears a doctor’s mask and washes her hands. The hospital seems to make a lot of (non-monetary) exceptions for Lance and his family. Handouts aren’t something the McClain family especially likes, but such aren't moments for pride.

 

“Come home soon, Lance! Azul misses you,” Maria chirps over her shoulder. Lance smiles at this.  _ Azul,  _ the family American Shorthair that looks like a Russian Blue if you squint. Lance misses her, too.

“Adiós, hermano,” Rory says with a two-finger salute.

 

“Hasta luego,  ¿sí?” Lance salutes back with a crooked grin.

 

Naldo merely nods curtly at his son, leading Maria out of the ICU. She hangs onto his forearm and skips down the ward, her glittery shoes squeaking on the floor.

 

Rosa kisses both of Lance’s cheeks before hurrying after her daughter and husband.

 

_ Dios a gracias.  _ Lance says to himself.  _ Thank god that’s over.  _ No matter how much he loves his family (he loves them to GN-z11 and back), seeing them is a lot like rubbing alcohol on a wound. It can't be the most pleasant experience, driving five hours  _ here _ to see  _ him.  _ To see  _ him  _ and get sad all over again about it all. Mamá, Papá, and Rory save the tears for later. Lance has only ever seen his parents cry once.

 

\---

 

Coran arrives to wheel Lance back to his room. Four years ago, he’d thought riding on the wheelchair was fun. He’d badger his nurses into pushing his at a light jog down the hall. Now, he stares mutely at the foam ceiling tiles, counting them as they pass. Coran keeps at a slow walk.

 

They pass a door hanging slightly ajar. Lance turns his head and peeks in. It’s dark inside the adjacent room. The shutters are pulled over the window and the lights are off. Noticing Lance’s interest, Coran pipes in, “poor fellow in 416 made a raucous in the emergency room last night. Apparently, the boy’s been in an automobile accident. Allura was pretty concerned about him when he was in surgery. He’s not her patient, but she says she thinks she knows him from somewhere.” He squints at the whiteboard hanging next to the doorframe. “Keith… Kogane,” he reads, sounding unsure.

 

“Doctor handwriting, huh?” Lance cocks his head and squints at the board. Before giving up and leaning back into the chair. 

 

They reach Lance’s room (#418) and Coran offers his patient a hand. Lance waves him off distractedly.  _ Keith Kogane.  _ The name rings a bell in his head. It’s so familiar.  _ Oh. Him _ . That _ Keith.  _ Lance smirks at the memories the name draws up.  _ Mullet-man, huh? I wonder why he’s here in the city, now. _

 

“You know him?” Coran asks, reading the recognition in Lance’s face. Pushing himself up on his forearms and taking a few shaky steps to collapse into his bed, he nods back at Coran, turning back to sit with his feet dangling off the edge of the mattress. 

 

_ I hope that hothead’s alright. Ha, who am I kidding? I don’t have to hope for him, he’s gonna be fine. Keith’s the kinda guy who’d be hit by a car and then run after the car and hit it  _ back _ or something else angry and stupid. He’ll be fine…  _ Keith had been an infuriating and awe-inspiring fixture in Lance’s life back a few summers ago. He can’t help but snigger at imagining Keith’s reckless antics.  _ Haven’t seen him since middle school, have I?  _ He muses.  _ Why would I though, anyhow? _

 

Coran waves a hand slowly in front of Lance’s face as he spaces out thinking about  _ Keith _ (of all things). “You alright, boy?”

 

Lance nods again. Sunlight streams in through the window. “Yeah. I’m all good, Coran. No need to worry about Sir Lancelot.”

 

Rolling the wheelchair out of the room, Coran responds with a good-natured, “if you say so, kiddo.”

 

\---

 

Surprisingly, Lance feels considerably better upon waking up the next morning.  He sits up, doesn’t feel top-heavy or dizzy, and fist-pumps the air in celebration.

The bare linoleum is cold, and Lance’s feet are always cold anyway, so he grabs a pair of fuzzy socks before flinging open his door with Disney Princess™ level enthusiasm.

Taking careful, sure steps out into the hallway, he grips the wooden rail that runs down the length of the corridor. At Keith’s room, he stops to read the sign.

 

Name: Keith Kogane

_ Concerns: _ Lance skips through the fancy medical terms, getting the general gist - internal bleeding, shattered collarbone, broken ribs, punctured lung?, and two shattered tibia.  _ How the hell did all of those things happen? The cocktail of injuries listed makes Lance feel a bit queasy. _

Condition: stable Lance smiles at this.  _ See, he's fine,  _ he assures himself. 

Physicians: Lance bypasses the numerous doctor names. He recognizes none of them.

Nurses:  Coran Altea, Gloria Santos

 

The door to 416 is still wide open, daring Lance to invade Keith’s privacy. So, of course, Lance takes this as a sign to snoop. Being nosy, he steps into the room, grasping onto the doorframe to steady himself. The Keith Kogane lying there covered in bandages that wrap from the base of his throat to where his ankles poke out of the sheets is a far cry from the Keith Lance remembers from way back when. Lance remembers a short dipshit who always kicked ass at streetball and pretended to hate everything from puppies to the stars ( _ blasphemy _ ) to social interactions. But Lance never got the honor of being something Keith cared enough for to  _ hate.  _ Or even pretend to hate.

 

So, to combat that insulting dose of being ignored, Lance declared himself Keith’s great streetball rival. Of the nearly 100 games the pair of them had played, the dark-haired, dark-eyed emo-punk pretty boy with a floofy mullet won about 70, running literal circles around Lance and his sharpshooting.

Idly, Lance wonders if Keith still plays. The last time he himself had played feels like a very long time ago. Turning back, pushing himself off the doorframe and back it into the hall, Lance dredges up memories from the “good old days” when he could still play basketball and still lived at home. Lance doesn’t like to think about the past. It tends to lead to dwelling on regrets, and he’s probably got more of those than most people. Also, nostalgia gives him the “I'm gonna cry” tightness in his chest. He truly hates that feeling.

 

Snapping himself out of his angsty daze, Lance red solves to get to know Keith Kogane of the present when the guy wakes up. As he reaches his room, Lance falls back into his bed and curls up, exhausted from a mere stroll to a destination about three meters away.

 

\---

 

“... about him, Allura.” Coran’s concerned voice greets Lance’s waking ears.

 

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes. The room snaps into focus. He turns his head to see Allura and Coran standing at his bedside. Allura catches the movement in her periphery and turns to face Lance.

 

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty,” she says with uncharacteristic humor in her voice. 

 

Lance sits up and rests his chin on his palm, his knee supporting his elbow. “Hey ‘Lura. What’s this little gathering in my room for?” He asks, wondering what nature of conversation he’d interrupted them from.

 

“Coran just had a question for me,” Allura assures simply. “He was checking your vitals, so we just met here.”

 

“Oh. Neat,” Lance accepts the elementary response. With a wide yawn, he stretches his legs in front of himself and reaches for his phone as Allura and Coran leave, closing the door behind themselves. Tumblr sounds like a great waste of time, right now. Resolving to bury his suppressed emotions by scrolling through fanart and memes, he opens the app, staring blankly at the loading screen.

 

Coran returns hours later with a tray of lukewarm dinner. Lance is still hunched over his smartphone. “I hope that this’ll do,” Coran says apologetically. “I daresay, it’s been a rather unfortunate day for the kitchen staff.”

 

“Thanks, Coran,” Lance eyes the tray cautiously. “Uh, do you know if Keith’s alright?” he blurts, sincerely curious.

 

“He’s getting much better, actually,” Coran smiles. “He should wake up within the next 24 hours.”

 

Taking a tentative sip of the saccharine sweet pinkish liquid masquerading as lemonade, Lance nods. “That’s great.” He truly means it.

 

\---

 

Really, Keith Kogane is just a Korean teenager who can’t speak Korean,  _ can _ speak Japanese, and likes obscure old anime almost as much as streetball and his now totaled Stryker. He’s got a father halfway around the world, and a mother six feet under a cheap slab of granite, and an adopted brother. Said brother is the kind of son that every mother brags about. Army vet turned firefighter, Takashi Shirogane is everything Keith will never be in life. Keith would much rather raise Red, his Somali cat, and skip his senior year of high school in favor of getting a job or playing full time in tournaments or going on an exhibition tour.

 

He really didn’t ask to get involved in any automobile accidents. He really didn’t ask to end up one single thin wall away from the _one and only_ Lance McClain. Really, the universe must hate him or something. It’s not like Keith _asked_ that the natural course of the spacetime continuum make such events happen. But the universe obviously doesn’t listen to Keith’s wishes, and before he even wakes up in a hospital bed, he’s in over his head.

 

So… essentially, the universe is an asshat of  _ epic  _ proportions and Lance McClain is just sitting, waiting to knock Keith Kogane out of orbit in some dramatic way. And that's not even where the problems start. Because see, it's a bit difficult to play ball with wrecked shins, and it's a bit hard to pay for thousands worth of medical expenses when you're still in highschool and your financial support is a firefighter barely making $30,000 a year before loans and life and taxes. But details, details. This wouldn't be a story without a plethora of emotionally taxing conflicts _. _

 


	3. Keith is Frustrated (and so is Lance)

Being hit by a multiple-ton pickup truck cruising at a solid 50+ kilometer-per-hour speed and then being subsequently thrown a few meters off of his Yamaha Stryker onto the asphalt must’ve hurt a lot, but when Keith Kogane wakes up two days after the fact, he feels pretty numb of any feelings at all. He feels next to normal. Albeit, he can tell immediately that the crash must’ve seriously fucked with his legs, and also that he’s on some strong cocktail of painkillers. So maybe not  _ next to normal _ , but not nearly as freaky as he expects to feel considering.

 

He can also tell that he’s in a hospital. (No shit, Sherlock.) And that it’s the panicky, rushed, bustling inner-city breed of hospital. The kind of hospital that manages to smell faintly of ammonia and strongly of bleach.

 

Evidently, Keith hates hospitals with a passion. He’s had a history with medical institutions, and it hasn’t been very happy or hopeful. Hospitals, in particular, give him a creeping feeling of dread.

 

All the horrible, terrifying memories of hospitals that sit in the back of his mind really don’t help the matter, either.

 

So he’s only been conscious for a brief five minutes, but Keith wants  _ out _ of the hospital.

 

But that’s when it dawns on him. Interrupting his fear of hospitals and meandering mind wanderings, a single thought drops into his head and fills him with a legitimate and abrupt dose of panic.

 

_ Shit. Does Shiro know I’m here? _

 

_ \--- _

 

A half-hour after Keith had awoken, a willowy nurse wearing slate grey scrubs walks into the room, pushing the door gently open with her hip. The time is exactly 10:58 am. She sees Keith and smiles, all pearly white teeth and exhausted eyes.

 

“You’re awake,” she says, recognizing Keith’s (very much awake) gaze as he gives her a vacant look. Proceeding to rush to his bedside, she smiles down at him in a way that feels vaguely condescending.

 

Keith skips the pleasantries. “Call Takashi Shirogane right now. I have his phone number. Get someone to call him.” His voice is raspy and hoarse from disuse. The nurse looks understandably taken back. “Please,” Keith adds, trying to make a less severe, more pitiable expression.

 

“I, I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Kogane,” the nurse responds. “What’s his number?”

 

“XXX-XXX-XXXX,” Keith divulges quickly.

 

The nurse, Gloria, the tag on her breast pocket says in minuscule type that Keith can barely make out, writes the number down on a slip of paper conjured from her back pocket. She fumbles with some wires before insisting that Keith let her check his vitals quickly.

 

Keith lets the tension in his body relax slightly. He lays back and asks calmly, “do you know how long I’ve been here?”

 

“You arrived in the ER two days ago. Today is Monday. The doctors should know more about your condition than I do.” She reports.

 

“Okay,” he nods. “Thanks.”

 

She gives him a somewhat saccharine smile before turning heel and rushing off. The door snaps shut behind her.

 




“ _ Takashi Shirogane?” _

 

_ “Yes. This is him.”  _ Shiro’s brow furrows as he answers the unknown number. _ “Who’s this?” _

 

_ “This is the BBRYG Research Hospital, sir.” _

 

_ “Uh, what’s the issue, ma’am?” _

 

_ “A young man by the name of Keith Kogane would like to inform you that he is here at the hospital.” _

 

_ “Keith? What Happened to him?” _

 

_ “He was involved in an automobile accident two days ago. First thing he did when he woke up was ask for you, Mr. Shirogane.” _

 

_ “I…” _

 

The line goes dead. Shiro shoves his phone haphazardly into his pocket along with his keys before running out of the fire station and shouting an excuse over his shoulder to the confusion of his boss and coworkers.

 

\---

 

Apparently, it’s Monday. Lance doesn’t care much for Mondays. Who does? He’s pretty out-of-touch with the days of the week anyway.

 

In any case, it’s Monday. To the broader world, Mondays seriously blow. All of the doctors are noticeably decaffeinated and all of the patients are crabby, salty and snappy. More horns honk on the avenue outside. Even the sky is an angry grey.

Lance wheels himself laps around the fourth floor in a figure-eight pattern and listens to Shakira’s  _ Pies Descalzos  _ in an effort to waste the morning away. Fatigue settles into his arms after a dozen laps, but the monotony is soothing, so he keeps going around and around and around. A guy can only spend so much time reading Tumblr text posts and re-watching Attack on Titan.

 

As Lance enters his twenty-third lap, the elevator opens with a ding and a mechanical rolling sound. The sliding metal doors reveal a weary-looking man with a patch of white hair and a navy firefighter uniform on. Lance almost mistakes him for a radiologist because of the color.  _ Is that Takashi Shirogane? _ He wonders.  _ That’s Takashi Shirogane! _ He verifies to himself upon a closer look at the guy.

 

An excited smile lights up Lance’s face. He pulls out his earbuds. “You’re Takashi Shirogane, right?” He asks enthusiastically.

 

Shiro gives him a confused look. He points to himself, frowns in Lance’s direction and looks all in all confused. Still, he confirms, “uh, yeah, that’s me.”

 

“Cool! I remember you from career-day in elementary school. You were so awesome, man! You were, like, my idol in the fifth grade.”

 

“Oh… uh… that’s great,” Shiro still looks off-guard and distracted. He meets Lance’s wide blue eyes again before looking both ways down the hall. “It’s nice that you remembered me. That must’ve been at least five years ago…”

 

“Yeah. It was seven years ago, actually.” Lance fidgets with his IV line.  _ Please don’t ask about … this.  _ He prays silently in Shiro’s general direction as the older man gives him another once-over. After a few seconds of awkward shifting eye contact, Lance inquires helpfully, “you seem a bit lost. Know where you’re going?”

 

“I don’t actually. Can you help?” Shiro is once again glancing brusquely down the hall.

“I know my way around,” Lance says pridefully. “You know the room number?”

 

“418, I think?”

 

_ He’s seeing Keith, huh? Funny, I guess el mundo really es un pañuelo.  _ “418 is right down the hall and around a few corners. I’ll show ya,” Lance offers.

 

“Thank you,” Shiro frowns some more as he follows Lance down the hallway. “What’s your name?”

 

“Lance. Lance McClain.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Lance,” Shiro holds his hand out for a handshake. “You can call me Shiro.”

 

Lance accepts the hand with his right (non-IV) hand. “Keith’s room is right down the hallway.” He points left with his thumb.

 

“Keith? You know him? Is he okay?”

“He’s alright,” Lance replies quickly. “Um, to my knowledge at least. We went to middle school together apparently. Now we’re hospital room neighbors…” Lance chatters on as he wheels himself towards Keith’s room. Shiro looks marginally overwhelmed by Lance’s amiable, boisterous, hyperactive nature.

 

Lance stops in front of room 418. Before he pushes the door open, Shiro gives Lance a small wave over his shoulder, adding, “see you around, Lance. I’ll be sure to find you if I’m ever lost here again.”

 

Lance nods and grins. “You can count on me!” With a calmer tone, he adds, “I hope Keith gets well soon,” before wheeling to his room.

 

\---

 

Keith nearly flinches as he sees the door open. Shiro walks in. As he sits there, wide-eyed, Keith is motionless and refuses to meet Shiro’s eyes. He gathers a face as sheepish as he can muster before giving his older brother a sideways look.

 

“So what exactly happens?” Shiro speaks first, his voice measured and controlled. This is a reflection of his “skip the fluff” policy. Shiro’s always been pretty blunt. It’s something Keith’s inherited from his brother, though in his case it’s not always the most savoir faire thing.

 

“I… uh.. a truck?” Keith says dryly, instantly regretting his rather tactless comment.

Instead of getting angry or sighing exasperatedly per usual, Shiro smiles gently at his younger brother. “Hey, chill. I know this has probably been pretty rough. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

 

Keith balls his fist and glares through his dark fringe, suddenly angry. He opens his mouth to snarl harshly, “it  _ that  _ all you have to say about this mess?” Forcing the words roughly through his teeth in a grating tone, he continues, “hell knows how many thousands of dollars  _ this _ is going to cost,” and gestures to his legs and bandaged torso. “The bike is wrecked,” he adds with less bane, “and I’m stuck here for another month at least.”

 

“ _ I  _ fucked up big time. This shitstorm is  _ my  _ fault. You didn’t even know until a few hours ago. Yell at me or something, Shiro.” Keith meets Shiro’s dark eyes.

 

“Well, I guess you aren’t as drugged as I thought you’d be,” Shiro chuckles as he pulls Keith into a one-armed hug, carefully minding the bandages. He smiles softly and maybe sadly behind his brother’s head. “But really, stop blaming yourself. It was an  _ accident _ .”

 

Keith almost blurts, “ _ maybe listen to your own advice once in awhile,”  _ but stops  _ that  _ disaster of a sentence from leaving his lips. Instead, he snaps his mouth shut and hugs Shiro back. “Sorry,” he whispers in his elder brother’s ear, “for that.”

 

Shiro laughs faintly again. “It’s totally fine, Keith.”

 

“But seriously Shiro, how do you expect to pay for this?” Keith gestures at himself again.

 

Shiro merely shrugs. “Stop worrying. That’s my job.”

 

“You’re too much like mom…” Keith mutters.

 

Both siblings sit together for a moment. Shiro keeps up a casual conversation. Keith nods and hums along.

 

Eventually, Keith glances at the clock on the wall. “Shouldn’t you be at work right now?”

 

“Yes. I probably should,” Shiro days matter-of0factly while hed fishes his phone out of his pocket and frowns at the thread of messages from his concerned boss.

 

“Get the heck outta here, then!” Keith mimes shoving Shiro in the general direction of the door.

 

“I’ll be back later,” Shiro promises as he rushes out.

 

_ That went well.  _ Keith tells himself sarcastically.

 




 

Shiro rushes down the hall, fumbling with his phone as he jogs towards the elevators. Not sparing enough attention to his surroundings, he runs straight into someone. This someone is more than half a foot shorter than him, has dirty blond hair, and is also apparently not minding his environment.

 

“Sorry,” they both say in unison before looking up and moving to rush in their separate ways. That is until the recognition flashes across their faces. 

 

“Matt?”

 

“Shiro?”

 

“What are you doing here?” Shiro asks, taking in Matt Holt’s current appearance.  _ Oh crap, he got hot,  _ is the first thought that crosses Shiro’s mind, making him flush a shade.  _ Crap. _

 

“I do research things here,” Matt reports. “What are you doing here?”

 

“My brother was in an accident. He’s alright now, so I’m just stopping by to visit.”

 

“Your brother’s Keith, right? What’s his room number? I’ve gotta blast in, like, soon, but I can, uh, keep an eye on him. I’ll give you my number so we can keep in touch.”

 

“I… alright,” Shiro hands his phone over. Matt types his number into a new contact, labeling the file ‘Dr. Holt.’ Shiro smiles at the nickname. “I’ve gotta go, too. See you around,  _ Doctor  _ Holt.”

 

_ Matt? In a hospital? That’s a bit of a plot twist. He was such a techie back at the academy. I wonder what changed. I really should’ve reached out back then… _

 




<Possible trigger warning. Minor? Panic attack? (See notes below for context.)>

 

Lance has been staring at the bottom of the toilet bowl for the past half hour. It isn’t the prettiest of sights.

 

He heaves again, clutching the cool sides of the ceramic bowl tightly. Once he feels quite finished with being sick for the fourth time in the past forty minutes, he flushes the toilet, holds his ears at the sudden loud noise, and decides that there probably isn’t anything left in his digestive tract to possibly throw up.

 

So he just sits there on the cold, dusty bathroom floor and brings his hands to cover his face. The needle prick from where the IV had been until an hour ago when he’d unceremoniously yanked the thing out is leaking a bead of dark crimson blood. He removes his hand from his face to watch a bead of red drip leisurely down his bony wrist. It is at moments like these that Lance is truly afraid. Truly terrified. There’s a lead weight settling into his chest, restricting his lungs. Breath comes in shallow gasps. Silent tears stream down Lance’s cheeks. He’s beginning to dissociate from the situation. It begins to feel as though he’s merely watching himself fall apart. As though he’s an onlooker intruding on someone else as they unravel at the seams and into a pitiable mess on the nondescript bathroom floor.

 

There are many kinds of sadness. This kind is the yo-yo kind. The kind that sends you down, down, down before you own momentum pulls you back up. Still, it’s throbbing and lingering. Numbness bleeds into something with more intensity. Lance is being pulled down below, dragged under the current. It’s like being caught beneath a breaking wave in the ocean. There’s a band tightening around his throat. He  _ can’t breathe. _

 

Covering his mouth with both hands, he braces himself against the ugly sobs. Chest heaving, diaphragm convulsing unpleasantly.

 

_ This. All of this. It’s real.  _ He thinks. And amazingly, he’s almost indifferent. Simultaneously hypersensitive and desensitized. He’s lost control of himself, his body, his mind, his thoughts. He finds comfort by curling into a limp fetal position, grounding himself in the familiar sensation of cold ground beneath his shoulder.

 

_ I’m dying. I’m actually dying.  _ It’s the one fact that he rarely even lets himself poke with a three-meter stick.  _ Fuck _ . Lance hears the faint scrape of his door opening. He can’t bring himself to care.  _ I’ll never have a summer internship like Rory. I’ll never see Maria walk at graduation with one of those funny hats. I’ll never reach the stars. My abuela will have to attend the funeral of  _ su nieto _.  _ Lance collapses farther into himself. This is  _ real. All of this is a fact as determinate as the suns and the planets and the comets. _

 

He covers his ears again. As though that would help anything. As though such a futile action could do anything to quell the onslaught of  _ thoughts _ . The  _ my parents are wasting hundreds of thousands on a lost cause _ thoughts. It’s the guilt that gets him every time. And the knowledge that is isn’t actually his fault, too. Sure, he knows that his parents love him. They love him so much. But surely he isn’t worth  _ that much _ , is he?  _ Am I? _ He’s whimpering into his palm. Hiccups and gasps escape him. Someone knocks on the bathroom door.

 

“Lance?” It’s Coran.

 

Lance clamps his hand over his mouth again to stifle the pathetic noises.

 

“Lance, why did you remove your IV?” Coran asks patiently, assuming that the situation is deeper, yet carefully testing the waters with a simple question. “Lance, I’m going to open the door. Is that alright?”

 

Lance doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth without sobbing loudly. The door slowly swings open. Coran’s kind face greets Lance’s puffy red eyes. Wordlessly, Coran gathers the mess of long limbs and carries him to his bed. Lance is still hiccupping.

 

Coran busies himself with the IV drip.

 

“I’m not worth it, am I, Coran?” Lance asks shakily. His tone is numb. His eyes bear down at the sheets lying across his knees. 

 

Coran is speechless for a moment before answering. “Of course you’re ‘worth it’. Every single person in this building would be  _ worth it.” _

 

“I… okay…” Lance averts his gaze. Anywhere but Coran. Everything has more or less settled. The yo-yo’s rising out of the dip. With a thoroughly exhausted, bone-tired tone, he breathes, “I’m so sorry.” And then he smiles hollowly, tentatively, at his hands and erases this recent little breakdown from the “things that happened today _”_ list. Lance is used to this whole thing. The falling apart and putting back together.

 

Coran re-inserts the IV line. Allura walks in. Lance stares at her. She meets his blank look with a kind one of her own, understanding the situation at hand immediately. Without hesitation, she pulls Lance into a tight hug, saying nothing. She doesn’t need to. Because while hematologist Allura Altea is blunt, cold, methodical, collected, and quite the dedicated professional, the ‘Lura that Lance sees in as human as everyone else. Also, the woman hugs like a boss. She and Coran have developed a multi-step “dealing with Lance’s breakdowns” plan with the help of his psychologist (with whom Lance himself outright refuses to speak to.) In this case scenario, at least, it’s working well.

 

And at the end of it all, Lance is so, so thankful for all that he’s got. Regrets, frustrations, everything subsides. Like autumn leaves in the back of his mind, the chaos fades to measured calm.

 

It doesn’t take very much to push him off over the edge of the edifice he’s perpetually toeing, nod does it take much to fish him back out of the deep depths.

 

Allura and Coran sit with him until he drifts into shallow sleep.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 


	4. Ocean Eyes and Mullet Man

“Hey Lance, you ever heard of the hospital volunteer program?” Coran carries a tray of breakfast into the room. Lance looks up from his laptop, his expression questioning.

 

“Sure. Nyma was a volunteer, right?” he says rhetorically, nodding in thanks as Coran places the tray on his lap. “Why?”

 

“Since you’re turning 18 soon, you’re eligible to be a part of the program. Allura and Dr. Delancey think that it’d be a good thing for you.” Coran explains.

Lance tries not to look as disinterested as he feels. “Patients are eligible to be volunteers? What would I do?”

 

“You’re 100% eligible as of last week, you’re birthday’s in three weeks, right?” Coran queries. “And volunteers do things like visit people, give them cards and the like, play with the children. Sometimes work as minor lab technicians if they have the qualifications.”

 

“I, uh, I guess….”  _ It’s not like I’m doing anything else around here. _

“Excellent!” Coran beams. “I’ll sign you up immediately.”

 

Lance raises a hand in farewell. “Thanks for the breakfast. It actually looks pretty edible today.”

 

He barely eats a bite.

 

\---

 

For Lance, the day drags on at an agonizing pace. He finishes his online courses by lunchtime, and with nothing else better to do, makes the spontaneous decision to give his next door neighbor a visit. A one-man welcome committee of sorts. Whether his motives are curiosity, boredom, or a combination of the two, Lance doesn’t know, yet he finds himself knocking on the door to room 418 at exactly 12:00 pm noon.

 

No one answers.  _ Why would he, anyway? It’s not like he could walk to the door with two broken legs. He probably thinks I’m the nurse or a doctor… This is a dumb idea. _

Lance rationalizes, his fist hovering over the pale wooden door.  _ Eh, the hell with it,  _ he decides before twisting the knob, jerkily pushing the door open and wheeling himself through the doorway.

 

“Who are you?” Keith gives him an incredulous look.

“Uh… I’m  _ Lance _ ,” Lance responds, drawing out the “a” in his name and blinking rapidly for dramatic effect. “We were in the same class at Garrison Junior High.”

 

“Really? Were you in class five? What the heck are you doing in the city, then?”

 

“You seriously don’t remember me? We were, like, rivals, dude. Lance and Keith, neck and neck on the court.”

 

“Oh wait… I remember you. You only shot from the outside and didn’t know how to drive properly.” 

 

“Look who’s talking. You form was so… so…  _ weird _ !”

 

“Huh. At least I won a majority of our matches. You only won, like 40%, or something.”

 

“25 out of 103. I won 25of 103.” Lance corrects him.

 

“That’s even  _ worse _ . How and why did you remember that, anyway?” Frowning, Keith crosses his arms.

 

“Classified.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Why are you even here?”

 

Lance’s exaggeratedly offended look slips for a second, transforming into something almost fearful. “Nasty stomach virus,” he mumbles. “But don’t worry, I’m not contagious.”

 

“Not why are you here, why are you  _ here _ ?” Keith clarifies.

 

Whatever lapse in Lance’s character that had happened before disappears as he smirks. “Scouting the enemy.”

 

Keith gives him a half-lidded “are you serious?” look. “That was almost four years ago. Plus, you’re in that chair, how’d you play ball?”

 

“Touchy subject, dude.” Lance pouts and glares.  _ Still a bit of an ass,  _ he thinks. “Plus, I doubt  _ you’d  _ be able to play with those two broken legs.”

 

“Seriously, what do you want?”

 

“Just to say ‘hi’,” Lance flashes a disarming smile.

 

Keith rolls his eyes again.

 

Both boys sit in silence before Lance speaks up again. “I… uh… hope you're okay. Sorry… about that comment.”

 

“That looks like it physically pained you,” Keith says dryly with a small smirk of his own.

 

“What, apologizing? Learn to, someday, mullet-head.”

 

“What the fuck’s wrong with my hair? And what've I gotta apologize for?”

 

Lance taps his wheelchair and gives a mockingly stern “I'm waiting” look, flatly ignoring the first question.

 

Keith huffs and frowns some more. “Sorry I was bit insensitive, but to be fair, you were being, like,  _ exceptionally  _ annoying.” He looks away from Lance’s ( oddly endearing? ) irritating face.

 

“Now  _ that’s  _ what we call a horrible apology.” Lance smirks again. “And I do intend to be  _ exceptional _ at everything.”

 

“Just go away, ocean eyes,” Keith grumbles, flushing upon realizing his misstep.  _ Ocean eyes. Shit, he's gonna make something if that. _

 

Lance balks, trying hard to suppress a blush before flashing a cocky simper of a grin. “Ya tried ‘a insult me but it didn't work!” He begins wheeling himself backward.

 

Keith turns away and says nothing.

 

“See ya, mullet-man Kogane!”

 

\---

 

Back in his room, Lance shuts the door and promptly pushes himself out of the chair. It rolls backward as he holds tightly into his while his heart rate catches up to the fact that he's standing up for the first time in a few days. He paces around until he feels confident in the steadiness of his legs.

 

Giving the wheelchair a triumphant look as he passes it, Lance marches out the door and towards the elevators, grinning just because.  _ Hunk and Pidge aren't outta school yet,  _ he muses as the “floor one” button lights up under his finger. 

 

It's about one o’clock in the afternoon, so the rest of the trio are, in fact, still trapped in the hellhole that is high school (or so they constantly report) for another hour and a half. Lance hides away from anyone who may chew him out for a) being on the first floor and/or b) being evidently wheelchair-less. Luckily, all of Coran's patients are on the fourth floor, and hematology is on the third, so Allura won't catch him either. Hopefully.

 

Thinking back to his exchange with Keith earlier, Lance laughs out loud.  _ I’m ridiculous. We’re ridiculous.  _ That  _ was ridiculous, _ he tells himself. _ Like, honestly. Who uses  _ ocean eyes  _ as an insult? _ Leaning back in a small blue chair, he takes his phone out of his back pocket. _ He's just hella awkward.  _ _ And maybe a bit cute _ _. It's not like I'm gonna take it personally. _

 

He impatiently taps the phone screen in a fruitless effort to get Netflix to stop buffering. Offhandedly, he decides,  _ Im’a make a card for mullet-head. Shiro doesn’t seem like the card-making type and I’ve never seen Keith’s parents or any other siblings…  _ The more rational side of his brain raises a (hypothetical) eyebrow at this, but when had Lance ever been one to listen to his rationality?  _ This’ll be great!  _ Giving up on the unreliable wifi service, he stands up and walks off in search of the kids’ crafts table.

 

“Sorry kiddos,” he smiles apologetically as he plucks a few crayons off the messy table where two little girls are scribbling in a superhero coloring book. After pocketing the crayons along with a price of white printer paper, he heads in the direction of the cafe, drumming his finger on his legs.

 

There’s a high table by the window and Lance immediately claims all three seats (the cafe is empty, save for an anesthesiologist taking a nap in the corner) as his own and begins his masterpiece. The art of card-making isn't his area of expertise, and he finds himself switching between the task at hand, judging strangers passing on the sidewalk outside, and checking all three of his Twitter handles every few minutes.

 

After two mess ups and subsequent returns to the crafts table for more paper, Lance finally produces something he's almost satisfied with. (Meaning he doesn't have the urge to rip it into tiny pieces.) Just in time, too, because as he nearly folds the card and shoves it into his jacket pocket, Hunk walks into the cafe.

 

“Hey buddy,” Lance calls, waving ardently.

 

“Aren't you supposed to be on bed rest?” Hunk asks.

 

“Nah, Allura’s eased up a bit since Saturday.”

 

Hunk gives him a skeptical look but doesn't comment.

 

“The usual?” He asks as he steps behind the counter.

 

“Yup,” Lance says as he spins in lazy circles on the spinny chair.

 

Hunk walks back and hands him a chai tea and a chocolate croissant.

 

“Thanks,” Lance takes a large bite of the pasty and blows on the hot tea. Business is still slow, so Hunk’s coworker lets him sit next to his friend on the high table.

 

“So how's school been?” The blue-eyed teen asks through a mouthful of croissant. He dips his finger into the tea to see if it's still hot as Florida summer. It's not. He takes a sip and promptly then an oversized gulp that results in him clapping his hand over his mouth and gagging, slamming the cup down on the table.

Hunk claps him lightly on the back, giving him a good-natured look. “School’s been pretty good. Everyone’s got a serious case of senioritis. My senior project is here at the hospital, so you can stop by the kitchen if you wanna see me anytime during the week next month. I'll be there from nine to three.

 

“Neat. What's your project?”

 

“A study about hospital food. If it helps or hinders patients and doctors. Basically a community service project but I've gotta write a paper on it.”

“I thought you’d do something with engineering,” Lance says. “But the food thing sounds cool. My hypothesis is that food does not, actually, shocking, I know,” he adds mockingly, “do anything to help patients or doctors.”

 

“That's not usually how hypotheses work…”

 

“Anyway, why do you want to spend more time  _ here _ , of all places? Can't resist my charm?” He grins toothily.

 

“Sure, sure,” Hunk hops off of the stool, nodding to his coworker as she calls him over. “And actually, I do hang around here to see you, Lance. Shay, too.”

 

“Awwwww. It's a hospital romance,” Lance coos at the mention of Shay, Hunk’s kind-of girlfriend. Shay’s a college freshman who brings her therapy dog Harris to the hospital every other day. 

 

Hunk smiles softly and flushes before disappearing behind the swinging door to the cafe’s miniature kitchen. When he returns, Lance is clutching his stomach and looking queasy. 

 

“You alright?” Hunk asks, concerned.

 

“Yeah. I'm good,” Lance reassures him. “Right now at least,” he mutters.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I, um.”  _ Might as well just tell him everything and get it over with. _ “I haven't been completely honest with you and Pidge about my leukemia.”

 

Hunk says nothing, silently prompting him to continue.

 

_ This  _ conversation wasn't something Lance was, to any degree, interested in having. Still, he owes his friends the whole story. Or at least what he thinks is the whole story of his life thus far. The cancer makes a way to feel like the most important thing in his existence. He tells Hunk everything.

 

The whole process leaves him feeling confused and numb and pretty sad. 

 

Allura, with her “Lance is doing something he isn't supposed to he” twenty-second sense, drags him back to his room shortly after.

 

Pidge walks through the cafe’s glass double doors a few moments later as Hunk is sniffling into a tissue.

 

\---

 

“I just missed Lance, didn't I?” Pidge asks as they pull out a chair near the cashier counter and heave their book bag shamelessly onto the marble tabletop.

 

Hunk is uncharacteristically upset. Absentmindedly, he answers, “yeah. He just left.”

 

“Did he… tell you his prognosis?” They carefully try to read the situation.

 

“Yeah. He did. He said I should tell you.”

 

“Why can't he tell me himself?”

 

“I don't know… he's pretty wrecked about the whole thing. I don't think he wants to repeat it all again. Especially to you…”

 

“Just ‘cause I've been in remission for years doesn't mean I'm afraid of the word ‘oncology’.”

 

“I know. And Lance definitely does, but maybe just let me tell you about this. Coran told me he had a pretty rough day yesterday. I'm pretty worried about him.”

 

“I…I am, too,” they murmur. “So, uh, what's the deal?”

 

Hunk leans on his elbows, looking over the counter. His coworker takes his place at the register. “We already know that he has acute myeloid leukemia,” he begins.

 

Pidge nods once, meeting Hunk’s watering eyes. It's obvious he's close to tears.

 

“And he's told us about his poor cytogenetics,” he continues.

 

“Plus, we know about his high white blood cell count,” Pidge picks up, their voice quiet.

 

“And he's a terrible candidate for a stem cell transplant.” Hunk stares at the wooden table. “Well, uh, now his count is higher, and it's still climbing. He… he..” he stops. Pidge wordlessly prompts him to go on. “He relapsed a few months ago. And he isn't being treated anymore. He told me his chances are really, really bad. He's not gonna make it another year.”

 

Pidge’s voice is unsteady as they say simply, “Lance McClain isn't gonna fucking die in the shitty place from AML. Not gonna happen,” they say it as though it's a fact. As though Lance’s odds of living to the next spring aren't one thousand to one.

 

\---

 

“ _ Lance _ …” and  “ _ AML _ …” are all that Shiro really picks up. He's waiting for a cup of coffee in the hospital coffee shop when three single letters, pushed up against each other, make his breath catch for a moment. Never one to intentionally eavesdrop (that's rude), he overhears a rather private and serious conversation between the two highschool-aged kids.

 

_ Lance. The kid from yesterday,  _ he figures.  _ He's got AML? Lance isn't a very common name, is it? It’s gotta be him they’re talking about. _

 

Grabbing his coffee and thanking the barista, he rushes out of the shop.  _ He seemed so… normal? Happy, content, hopeful.  _ He takes the steps to the fourth floor, skipping up two at a time, holding a hand over the lid of his scalding drink.  _ So different than me… I guess it just goes to show how people deal with their realities in all sorts of ways. _

 

_ \--- _

 

Lance feels a bit guilty about zoning out of Allura’s lecture. Honestly, he does feel pretty sorry, but his mind is elsewhere. 

 

He’s in one of those odd moods where everything is so unnaturally calm. Nothing is bothering him. Thoughts tumble aimlessly through his head, all the mental ammunition he usually hurls at himself bounces harmlessly off its mark. Like his response to that voice within his head is something like, “ _ alright, Kenny. I really don’t care. Fuck off.”  _ And then “Kenny” actually fucks off and stops telling him he’s a pile of shit. Sure, he knows that all of the problems and bad things still exist, but he really can’t bring himself to care, let alone get torn up about it. It’s an eerily off-putting and uncomfortable feeling. 

 

“Are you even listening to me, Lance?” Allura asks, looking exasperatedly at him, a common theme in their relationship. 

 

Lance’s head snaps up and he meets her cerulean gaze. “I, yeah, of course.”

Allura raises her brow. “You were telling me to stop going to the atrium, yeah?”

 

“No, Lance. I was mentioning ideas about volunteer projects for you to do here.”

 

Lance scratches the back of his neck and looks penitent. Allura nearly rolls her eyes. Instead, she smiles and gives him a look that roughly translates to,  _ at least you’re listening to me now.  _ “I can work with the kids down in pediatrics, right? Like, just playing with them and entertaining them?” He suggests.

 

“Probably. It’s your best bet, really. You’re pretty good with small people, and and I don’t think I’d be able to get you clearance to do much else.”

 

“~Oh~, could I go room-to-room with flowers and cards and stuff.” Lance’s face brightens. “ Like Nyma,” he utters the name “Nyma” carefully, as though it feels strange on his tongue.

 

Allura agrees with a nod. “Usually the nurses do that, but we’re a bit understaffed, so that’d be helpful.”

 

“Thanks, ‘Lura!”

 

She waves over her shoulder as she leaves. “You have to wear a surgical face mask from now on. To be honest, you should’ve been before, and you’re lucky you haven’t gotten sick. Your immune system is pretty compromised at this point.”

 

Lance just smiles and waves back, “gotcha!”

 

\---

 

Shiro sits on the low swivel doctor stool. The small one on wheels. His knees jut out comically far. Keith doesn’t have the energy to laugh at how his brother looks like a heterochromatic frog poised to take a leap. 

 

“Didn’t know you had a break right now,” Keith says evenly, sitting up a bit straighter in bed. It’s an unusual happening for him to be the one to start the conversation.

 

“Jake let me go early. I’ve gotta take an extra shift on Thursday.”

 

“Oh.” Not knowing how to continue, Keith fiddles with his hands.

“So how’re you feeling?” Shiro asks.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Do you have any school friends who can get you your schoolwork?”

 

“Please don’t tell me you expect me to do homework like this.”

 

“You’re going to be here for a while. You might as well keep up with your work.”

 

“Tch. Okay.” Keith has neglected to mention over the past few months that his GPA is lower than his life expectations and that his highest grade is in chemistry, of all things.  And it’s not even like he’s especially great with Lewis structures and the periodic table. He just doesn’t care much more school and all of his teachers hate him for his “wasted potential” or something.

 

“So how was your day?”

 

“Uneventful. I’ve been sitting here doing nothing. I mean, this guy, Lance, barged in and insulted me and my hair, but that’s as exciting as it got.”

 

Shiro raises an eyebrow in recognition of the name. “Lance? The AML patient in the room next door? I ran into him yesterday. He showed me to your room.”

 

Keith freezes at “AML”. “The  _ what  _ patient?”

 

“I, uh, accidentally overheard his friends talking. He’s apparently got a pretty serious case of acute myeloid leukemia. I mean unless they were talking about Anti-Money Laundering.”

 

“He told me he had a bad stomach bug or something.”

 

“Oh…”

 

“I… we only met, like, for a few moments. I’m sure it’ll be fine. He probably won’t talk to me ever again. I mean, plus, he seems like a fighter,” he says fighter carefully. He hates how much it's used to describe people with terrible illnesses, but there's not much else to say.

 

“Alright. I’m sorry for mentioning…  _ it _ .”

 

Keith feels tempted to mutter, “fear of the name breeds increases fear of the thing itself.” Instead, Shiro sips his coffee before saying, “Guess who I ran into yesterday.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Matt Holt. Remember him?”

 

“From the military academy, right?”

 

“Yeah. He’s a lot taller now than he was then.”

 

Keith gives him a look. Shiro glares. Mindless banter occupies the next hour until Shiro leaves with a goodbye hug.

 

\---

 

The sun is setting in a showy display of fiery vermillion, ruby, and scarlet that simmers along the sides of the glassy skyscrapers. Staring, mesmerized by a sky not filled with stars (for once), Lance basks in the absolute beauty of the scene. The sky soon turns magenta, then dark turquoise, then a deep indigo.  _ Like Keith’s eyes. _

 

Lance is in the process of shrugging off his hoodie when he feels a flimsy piece of paper in his pocket. It crinkles gently as he takes digs it out. “Better go give this to Keith,” he decides out loud. He sets his phone wallpaper to one of the many pictures he’s just taken of the dusk before leaving his phone in a drawer and nearly forgetting to don the surgical face mask.

 

Dragging his hand along the rough, floral patterned wallpaper and walking slowly, Lance lets his pesky nerves build. Anxiously, he knocks twice on the door. Upon hearing a yelp of “what?!”, Lance turns the knob and steps inside. An unreadably uncomfortable expression flickers across Keith’s face briefly. Choosing to ignore this, Lance invites himself in and perches himself on the far edge of the hospital cot. Keith doesn’t instantaneously tell him to shove off, so he takes this as an positive feedback.

 

Awkwardly, he shoves the card at Keith, offhandedly muttering, “this wasn’t my idea.”

 

Keith accepts the card wordlessly, keeping a careful handle on his expression. “Thank?”

 

Disenchanted by the lacking reception, Lance stands up to leave, pushing himself heavily off the bed.

 

“It’s… a…. nice card,” Keith mumbles.

 

Lance grins behind the surgical mask, “of course it is. I made it.”

 

Keith rolls his eyes (seriously, his eyeball muscles should be sore from all that rolling). Lance gives him unironic double finger guns before leaving without another word.

 

The resident of room number 418 is blushing inexplicably and he hates it with most of the fibers of his being.  _ Most. _

  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Some More Exposition

 

**Grade 8, Garrison Junior High School**

 

Keith walks into the first day of eighth grade shouldering the burden of a brother seventy-five hundred miles away fighting a helpless war and a motherless than seventy miles away fighting a fruitless battle of her very own. He keeps his head down and his face hidden by a long (and honestly pretty emo) fringe, staring at his careworn sneakers and hoping nobody tries to talk to him.

 

At the very date, place, and time Lance practically skips down the hall, weightless and content. A bubbly pop song plays through a pair of cheap earbuds. He enthusiastically greets all of his friends, prattling on animatedly about his summer haunts and day-to-day excitements.

 

In the middle of the day, unlikely likely paths cross in a simple, everyday kind of way. It’s lunch recess, and the schoolyard is occupied by shrieking and yelling fourteen-year-olds with basketballs and tennis balls and tag games. It’s a chaos and discourse that phases no one.

 

A certain blue-eyed teen is watching a game of pickup streetball from the other side of a rusted chain-link fence. He watches this short kid with long hair and horrible fashion sense repeatedly making the most ridiculous baskets. _This guy can’t be more than 5’6” and he’s just about dunking the ball._ He thinks, awed. Of course, Lance’s automatic reaction is to stride over to him at the conclusion of a game and challenge him. _Because, hey, this guy’s pretty good and my fragile self-esteem can’t take it, better see for myself how I measure up. I’ll make that punk band wannabe notice me._

“ _I_ challenge _you_ to a one-on-one to ten points,” Lance declares. “The far court is open and I’ve gotta ball.” He holds up the basketball and raises his chin, daring Keith to take his offer.

 

“What?” Emo rabbit (so-called by Lance because of his hair and his freaky jumping) pushes some strands of dark hair from his eye and gives the other boy a confused look. “Who’re you?”

 

“The name’s Lance McClain,” he supplies, the ball balanced between his hip and elbow. “Now, one-on-one?”

 

Keith continues looking addled and slightly irritated “Uh, sure?”

 

“Aw yeah!”

 

\---

 

And so it begins. It takes 10 games and five lunch breaks in the schoolyard for Lance to

finally claim a single victory. When he does, he makes sure Keith never forgets about it.

 

Months pass. What was once a very one-sided “rivalry” has become more of a reluctant two-way street. The competition has evolved into a more versatile event. Half-court shots, races across the asphalt, slush-ball fights. Still, however, at the sound of the bell at 12:40 pm, both boys go their separate ways, to different classes and different cliques, and live their own, independent lives.

 

They may call each other acquaintances. And they certainly call each other names (in the way that fourteen-year-old boys do). But they dare not call each other friends.

 

Come spring, they each know the other’s favorite colors (red and blue respectively), they’ve both picked up on the ticks and nuances (the way that Lance sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he’s about to take a tricky shot, the way that Keith flicks his bangs out of his eyes so he can actually see what he’s doing), they’ve shared lunches and gossip and a handful of detentions. They’ve shared plenty of insults. Still, _friends_ is a bit of a stretch. Lance is surprisingly selective in his friendships. Plus, admitting Keith to be a friend would be admitting bitter defeat, the end of a valuable animosity, so _that’s_ out of the question. Keith, alternatively, likes to think that he doesn’t need friends. (He does.) And that maybe no one would really care much to be his friend anyway. (Some would.)

 

Regardless, they still compete at lunchtime every day. Without fail, they meet each other on the far court and either play a game, race around the playground and through the tennis courts, or invent some new form of fierce schoolyard competition.

 

By early May, every student is ready for school to end. Eighth-grade graduation is nearing. Ten whole weeks of summer on the beach in no longer a distant daydream, it’s a mere month away. The dog days are around the corner.

 

As it gets hotter and hotter, and the teachers give up on holding their authority over the students, both Lance and Keith begin looking worse for wear. Pallor and dark eyes. Dry skin and way too many dark bruises. _Where did I get all of those?_

Sometimes Keith arrives at school an hour late, masking puffy red eyes behind his hair or his oversized hoodie sleeve. Lance seems to get paler despite spending more time than ever under the hot subtropical sun.

 

Both boys take notice of the changes in each other. Neither say anything.

 

A week away from graduation, Keith is absent from school the entire day. Lance waits for him, sitting under the basket and waving off offers to join the pickup game happening on the adjacent court. He spins the ball, worn smooth from relentless wear, on his knuckle.

 

The next day, Keith does show, but there are even more prominent dark circles under his eyes, and instead of responding to Lance’s taunts with jabs of his own, he merely gives the other teen a blank look. Eventually, he lamely agrees to a race, but Lance can tell that there’s clearly no real enthusiasm behind the gesture. Instead of teasing more, Lance takes off. Keith chases after.

 

As he crosses the tennis courts, skirting around the nets, sneakers pounding on the hardcourt, Lance feels his knees suddenly buckle. Everything feels so _weak_ all of a sudden. In the same exact moment, Keith passes him with a triumphant smirk. Lance collapses, bracing his fall with his forearm. As he looks back and sees Lance lying limply on the smooth concrete, Keith’s expression transforms from triumphant to panicked. His smile disappears in an instant, worry taking its place.

 

“ _Lance!_ ”

 

Lance tries to pass the whole thing off as nothing, even as the administration calls an ambulance and he’s driven two towns away to the nearest hospital. To Keith, the whole scene feels sickeningly familiar.

 

\---

 

The boy with an almost perpetual scowl and a tardy record to put the class stoner to shame (aka. Keith Kogane) doesn’t return to school for the remainder of his eighth-grade year. Neither does Lance McClain. Two very different families sit in dark rooms, mourning, as the ecstasy of a Florida summer rushes on outside of darkened hospital rooms, passing on indifferently without them.

 

Kogane Hye-in (1968 to 2013) is buried in the small town cemetery. Her younger son does not shed a single tear at the funeral (his father has taught him to save the tears). Her elder son receives the news of her passing as he wakes up in a bright room, missing his right arm as well as other, less tangible pieces of himself. Her husband buys a one-way ticket to Busan, South Korea a week after the ceremony, leaving his fourteen-year-old son in the hands of a nineteen-year-old brother returning from war with plenty of troubles of his own.

 

Lance McClain is sent off to the big city to live with his aunt and receive treatment in a state-of-the-art, nationally ranked facility. Inwardly, he figures that he’ll only return home once he’s been nailed into in a pine box or turned to ash. Outwardly, he keeps on smiling like everything’s fine.

 

Keith Kogane enters high school in the very same city, a few districts away from the bustling city center where Lance spends his days. He still plays streetball and listens to a playlist of exclusively angsty rock music and keeps a wardrobe of solely red and black, but something’s changed. When he was a child, he rarely smiled, but now, he never does. His marks fall and fall. Shiro doesn’t have the money for a psychiatrist or even the blue pills that would be prescribed after a definite diagnosis.

 

Both boys a very alone and very scared. Life wasn’t supposed to turn out this away. It’s bitter and harsh, but it’s the plain truth. No one plans of becoming an orphan. No one plans to spend the rest of their life shut up in a hospital, waiting and watching as their body gives up and the people give up and the dust settles on the could’ve, would’ve, should’ve of a life lived to fast and to short all at once. No one plans for life to deal them _this_ fucking shitty a hand, but they still have a few options: to fold, to call, or to raise. It fucking sucks.

 

_Dios, do I hate poker._

 

_Fucking shit what’s with the trashy card games metaphors goddamnit narrator._

 

And in the end, somehow, they both manage to dig themselves in deeper and deeper no matter what they do.

 

* * *

 

And because this is a very short chapter (only 1k words), some headcanons about the characters as they are in this fic.

 

  * Lance watches anime a lot. He’s learning both Japanese and French as foreign languages because he’s kinda a language nerd and already bilingual.
  * Keith is really really really good at streetball. He got kicked off of his high school basketball team for discipline and grade problems (he played varsity sophomore year), but wouldn’t been offered and scholarship opportunities anyway because he’s short and has “character problems”.



 

  * Shiro is a war veteran and has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder



 

  * Lance would be almost the same caliber player as Keith if he we’re not sick. He’s also taller (maybe, like, 5’11) than Keith. Keith secretly envies him for his height but he’d never admit it.
    * To expand, Lance thinks Keith’s height  is cute and that he’s a badass. He kinda in awe of his (Keith’s) mad skills



 

  * Everyone’s just really pure and drama is a result of bad communication instead of intentional assholery



 

  * Pidge is nonbinary and demisexual, polyromantic because it fits and why the fuck not. Honestly they’d rather spend time on reddit or programming or in the lab than kissing and being cutesy and gross (like Lance and Keith in future chapters)



 

  * Allura is bi (or maybe pan?) like Lance. (I may or may not pair her off with Aunt Charo from chapter 2)



 

  * Lance is a space nerd and loves the stars with a passion. He wanted to be an astronaut and still takes a lot of sciency classes online and is a total astrology buff



 

  * Keith is very smart but doesn’t apply himself because he was zero motivation and while Shiro cares about him a whole fucking lot, he doesn’t know how to help him (he’s still a young adult himself)



 

  * He’s also into cryptids and conspiracy theories.
    * And he’s a secret fan of Welcome To Night Vale the podcast (because he seems like the type to dig that awesome stuff)



 

  * Allura is a very well respected in her field. This is even more awesome because she’s so young (late 20s), and is a woman of color
    * I have the headcanon that she’s mixed desi and Caribbean islander? In this universe
    * But it really doesn’t matter, so idk man


  * Lance’s brother Rory is a talented fashion designer and still in college



 

  * Shiro is adopted from Japan. The Kogane family adopted before they had a biological kid.
    * Mr. Kogane is mixed white and Korean and was born in the U.S. but grew up in Seoul. He’s rich and sends a bit of money back for his kids, but he’s really just an asshole that doesn’t want to deal with the mess
    * Mrs. Kogane was Korean and moved with Mr. Kogane to the U.S. after they married
    * Keith was a happy surprise
  * Maria (Lance’s little sister) is trans. She won’t appear much later in the story though
    * She’s a math whiz, too



 

  * Keith’s eyes are an unnatural indigo/purple color



 

  * Lance has the bluest of blue eyes that ever blued
    * He gets them from his grandmother and is the only cousin/sibling with them



  


  * The city itself is based off of Orlando, but it’s not exact since I’ve never been there.
    * So to avoid real-world inaccuracies, this takes place in a fictional unnamed city on the east coast of Florida




	6. One-Thousand Paper Cranes

Not one to be outdone, Keith resolves to make a “get-well-soon” card of his own for Lance. He manages to convince himself that it’s only for TheRivalryTM. He knows, not-so-deep-down, that his urge to pay Lance back really has nothing to do with the remnant of a competition that began and ended four-plus years ago. A competition that he himself claims to have forgotten. Who’s he kidding? Of course, he _remembers_ Lance, it’s just that greeting him on the same terms as those in middle school would be... uncomfortable. Best to throw away any connections, especially since Keith has vowed to stay away. (And look where that oath has gotten him.)

 

There are, however, a couple more problems with the card idea that don’t involve deep thinking and introspection. The first and foremost of these problems is that Keith’s art skills are, on a good day, truly abysmal. Arts and crafts have never been his passion. Even as a toddler, he carefully skirted around the table with the multicolored construction paper and glitter glue tubes. The second problem is that he’s got to convince Shiro or nurse Coran to get him paper and a pen without divulging his true intentions. (Now that'd be just embarrassing.)

 

Shiro drops by at lunchtime. Keith convinces him to fetch paper, vaguely bullshitting his way out of explaining the truth. He returns with the paper, a stack of colorful origami sheets. Cryptically, all Shiro says about his paper choice is, “fold him some cranes,” before excusing himself.  _ Cranes?  _ More than mildly confused, Keith takes a takes a midnight blue page and folds it sloppily in two uneven halves.  _ Oh.  _ And then he realizes.

 

It was maybe ten years ago. Shiro took him to the town library because it was hot as balls outside and the little media center was the only air-conditioned public facility within a two-mile radius of home. The librarian was reading a book to a group of kids. They looked about Keith’s age but must’ve gone to the private school because he didn’t recognize any of them from his class. Scattered leisurely on an apple green rug situated in a secluded nook beside the row of boxy blue computers labeled “KIDS,” they all listened intently to the story. Keith pretended to play one of the colorful, pre-downloaded, ‘learning’ games already on the ancient computer’s desktop while he listened to the narrative. He doesn’t remember the fine details of the plot. All he can recall is that there was this girl dying of leukemia who folded one thousand paper cranes in the hope that folding them would bring health and happiness to everyone  _ else  _ (and maybe herself along the way, but that wasn’t her priority) _.  _ And then the girl died before finishing her cranes. It was a pretty sad story. Who even thought it was a good idea to read  _ that  _ to a bunch of not-yet fourth graders? Apparently the librarian, but  _ wow. _

 

Keith remembers telling Shiro about the book, quite perturbed. His brother went on to explain the myth behind the one thousand cranes. According to myth (or Shiro’s recollection), folding one thousand paper cranes, “senbazuzu” in Japanese, would grant someone a wish. Other tellings said that the person would he granted good luck or good health. 1

 

_ Shiro wants me to fold  _ one thousand  _ paper birds? For Lance? Seriously?  _ He stares at the pretty geometric pattern on the thin paper in his hands.  _ Hah! I’m so gonna do this.  _ A part of himself tries to pass this whole thing off as yet another  _ competition,  _ but the rest of him calls bull. He’s doing this because it’s a nice gesture, he’s bored without his phone (that was smashed in the accident), and Lance needs all the help he can get. Even if Keith himself isn’t too big on spirituality and wishes and old Japanese folklore, being a modern teenaged  _ Korean  _ adoptee living in one of the least religious countries in the world and all. He’s also resolved to fold these cranes just because he  _ can.  _ (Or at least,  _ will  _ be able to _.  _ He’s gotta YouTube a tutorial first.)

 

Speak of the devil, Lance pokes his head into Keith’s room as he’s attempting to learn the art of origami crane-making. (Via the wonderful site YouTube. Shiro’s lent him the laptop.)

 

“~Ooh~, what’cha doin’?” the intruder hums, peering over Keith’s shoulder.

 

He jerks away. “None of your business.”

 

“Okay,” Lance just shrugs and takes a seat on the spinny doctor stool.

 

“What do you want now?”

 

“Just checking in.”

 

“Why?” Keith says this with a sigh clear in his tone.

 

Lance makes another of his faux pouty faces, “can’t I be a concerned citizen for our resident mullet-head over here. And for his attitude?”

 

“Stop calling me ‘mullet’.”

 

Lance screws his eyes at Keith before bursting into spontaneous laughter, plain and loud.

 

Keith makes another frowny face. “What’s so funny?”

 

“You-you look like a college-aged, East Asian Nico di Angelo like that,” Lance seems terribly amused by this.

 

“Like what? And who’s this ‘Nick of angels’?”

 

“‘ _ Nick of angels’ _ . Hah. Did you take Italian as a foreign language?” He wonders out loud. “And don’t tell me you’ve never read Percy Jackson. Don’t tell me.”

 

“Nope. Haven’t read those books. Aren’t they for kids?”

“How dare you?” Lance’s expression of personal offense if overblown and theatrical.

 

“I mean, you have made fun of  _ my  _ interests,” Keith justifies, looking a bit smug about his logic.

 

“What? Conspiracy theories and cryptids?” Eyebrows raised, Lance straightens and leans forwards. “I’ll cut you a deal- you read the entire Percy Jackson series, all 570,400 words, and I’ll watch an entire season of  _ Finding Bigfoot  _ or something with you.”

 

“ _ Finding Bigfoot _ is trash,” Keith says in a deadpan.

 

“That’s not a no!” Lance beams.

 

_ The fuck have I gotten myself into?  _ Keith wonders for the tenth time in less than a week.

 

\---

 

Lance, does, _technically_ know how he ended up sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Keith, watching _Unsealed: Alien Files_ , though he doesn’t care to remember. But it’s for Percy Jackson, so it’s all cool.

 

It takes some time to convince Pidge to give up their box set of the books, notwithstanding, Lance is an expert negotiator. They stop by before leaving the hospital that afternoon, placing the stack of novels on Lance’s lap before exiting the premise without a goodbye. This is how Lance knows they’re pretty pissed and pretty attached to those books. He tells Keith to be gentle with them. Keith then proceeds to hold  _ Percy Jackson and the Titan’s Curse _ above his head, looking as though he’s making to throw it into an imaginary basketball hoop.

 

“No no no,” Lance snatches the book away. “ _The_ _Titan’s Curse_ means a lot to Pidge.”

 

“Who is Pidge, anyway? Pidge seemed pissed at you. I like Pidge already,” Keith says humorlessly.

 

“Pidge is our resident computer-y, science-y, biology-y nerd-genius. They’re genderqueer, so use they/them to talk about them. If you were confused.”

 

“I know what genderqueer is.”

 

“Well you did grow up in a small town less than one thousand miles away from Mississippi, so it never hurts.”

 

“Lance, I’m literally as gay as a rainbow slinky. I was in the GSA back at school. Plus, we  _ lived in the same goddamn town. _ ”

 

“True dat,” Lance does the finger snap to finger gun thing. “And that’s neat. That you’re very gay, I mean. I’m hecka bi.”

 

Keith hums in acknowledgment before turning back to the show.

 

Something about the entire situation feels novel, yet natural at the same time. Two days ago, these two were mouthing each other off. Four years ago, these two sustained a passionate rivalry for eight long months of basketball games and foot races. Now they’re sitting side-by-side, watching a TV series about alien speculation that takes itself  _ way _ too seriously.  Funny how times change.

 

All Lance can do if follow the tides and ignore the feeling of Keith’s warm (and worryingly bony) body leaning against his own.

 

Keith just lets himself get swept away in this nonsense, ignoring all of the obvious, harmful truth sitting in his, bed, lounging at his right-hand side. The truth that is Lance and that is Keith’s aversion to getting too close, especially to people with Hades at the back door.  _ Whelp,  _ that  _ was a bad analogy for death.  _

 

Hours later, Coran finds the two. Lance has fallen asleep with his head on Keith’s shoulder. He’s drooling and snoring rather unattractively. Keith looks uncomfortable, flustered, and unsure of what exactly to do. He seems to be attempting to busy himself by folding paper, moving slowly as not to wake the other boy. Wordlessly, Coran picks Lance up (Keith is amazed and concerned at how  _ light  _ Lance looks, how easily Coran lifted him) and leaves the room.

 

“ _ That happened,” i _ s all Keith thinks, his mind disarranged in exhaustion. Pulling the covers over his chest and closing his eyes, he tries for sleep.

 

\---

 

Hunk and Pidge practically live at the hospital, spending regular school hours, and more, at the place. Pidge has permissions from their ‘progressive learning’ STEM school to “learn outside the classroom” (do very important medical research). Hunk is completing his project. Both students somehow carve time out of their busy days to take lunch at the cafe with their favorite blue-eyed friend. The one with the big personality  and even bigger insecurities.

 

Pidge and Hunk split an almond croissant and a cranberry muffin. Lance stares at both baked goods longingly but doesn’t ask for any, waving his friends off when they offer him pieces.

 

“Allura’s finally gotten you to wear the surgical mask, huh?” Pidge asks, giggling and pointing at the thing.

 

“Yeah. It brings out my eyes, don’t’cha think?” Lance bats his eyelashes at them.

 

Pidge shrugs in response, passing a neat quarter of muffin to Hunk.

 

“So how’re your projects going?” He lets the issue be. Although, to himself, he knows that he’s still a total ladykiller with his pretty blue eyes. _ At least if I ever saw any single ladies my age. Keith’s pretty, though,  _ a little voice in his head decides to chime in.  _ Oi, I doubt that  _ Keith  _ would especially enjoy being called a lady,  _ another voice adds.

 

Both of his friends ignore the red on his cheeks and his mildly constipated expression as he falls silent.

 

“My project’s going pretty well. Nothing interesting has happened. I get to be around and make food and stuff, so I’d say I’m pretty happy,” Hunk answers before wiping crumbs off his chin with a small brown paper napkin

 

“ _ Please _ improve the quality of food coming out of that kitchen with your magical cooking skills,” Lance whines with a look of overblown desperation.

 

“That’d defeat the point of my research,” Hunk answers. “Pidge, buddy, how’s your  research going?”

 

“Good.”

 

“Still super top secret and classified?’

 

“Hah. Still classified, yeah.” Pidge nods with an amused exhale. “I get to stay here over the summer to finish the study with my brother and the team.”

 

“Oh! That reminds me, I’m sticking around over the summer, too.”

 

“Wait, you declined the summer internship?”

 

“Yeah, some of the fine print was kinda questionable. Plus, I like it here.”

 

“Dude, this is a  _ hospital _ .” Lance makes a face.

 

“It’s a nice hospital, though,” Pidge says defensively.

Lance dismisses the point absentmindedly as the door to the cafe opens with a creak and the soft sound of the hanging wells rings through the shop. It’s Shay with Harris.

 

“PUPPY!” Pidge yells as Harris trots towards them.

 

“Uh, Pidge, that’s a full grown, adult pit bull,” Lance says. 4

 

“He’s still a puppy inside,” Pidge responds as Harris licks their face.

 

“Hey everyone,” Shay says, sitting next to Hunk and stealing the last of the croissant from his plate.

 

Hunk kisses her on the cheek and places his arm around her shoulder.

 

“Awwwwwwwww,” Lance coos and clasps his hands together.

 

“Are you making gross noises about their relationship, or are you attempting to communicate with Harris?” Pidge asks dryly. “Because if it’s about their relationship, you should’ve seen yourself and Keith yesterday.”

 

“Hey! Leave Keith out of this!”

 

Pidge smirks. The door chime jingles again. Lance recognizes the mullet before he sees the newcomer’s face.

 

“What’s brought you down here?” Lance’s tone is friendly and questioning.

 

“Allura told me to stop being a shut-in and then told me to come down here to fetch you before you do something dumb again.”

 

“Neat, neat,” Lance, instead of standing up to leave, makes a space for Keith at the table. “Hunk, Pidge - Keith. Keith - Hunk and Pidge.” Lance presents Keith to the squad with jazz hands.

 

Pidge noticeably scoffs at this. 

 

“Heyo,” they say to Keith, their eyes transmitting the message of  _ hurt my books and you’re done for. _

 

“Nice to meet you,” Hunk extends a hand. Keith shakes awkwardly with his uninjured arm.

 

“You’d better treat those books right. I’ve had them since elementary school.” Pidge warns, still petting Harris and trying to look menacing.

 

“Wait, what grade are you in now, then?” Lance jokes, earning an offended look from Pidge and a mutter of “low blow” from (an also offended looking) Keith.

 

Short people. Airight?

 

\---

 

Somehow, Keith convinces Lance to wheel him back to their rooms, complaining about nearly all of the things that aren’t actually wrong with him. “My head hurts. My fingers hurt. Everything hurts.”

 

“How can  _ everything _ hurt?” Lance asks incredulously until he realizes  _ oh, the painkillers must be wearing off right about now. _

 

Keith sinks down in the chair, looking up at Lance.

 

Allura is there to greet them as they arrive in hallway C of floor four.

 

“I think Keith needs more morphine,” Lance announces to her, looking exaggeratedly labored and strained by the simple act of pushing all fifty-some kilograms of teenaged angst and Percy Jackson ignorance down the hall to the elevator.

 

“They haven’t even had him on morphine. He’s been getting codeine and tramadol,” Allura corrects. Lance, wondering why she knows this (she isn’t Keith’s doctor), wheels the chair into room 418.

 

“Which book are you on?” he ask Keith as Allura follows them into the room

 

She picks the shorter boy up and places him in his bed. 

 

“Which  _ book _ ? I just got to chapter ten of book one.”

“That’s pretty weak, man. Only ten chapters in a day? C’mon.”

 

“I’ve been busy!” Keith protests.

 

“Doing what, exactly?”

 

Keith says nothing in response. Lance excuses himself from the scene with a cheeky wink in the other boy’s general direction. Allura chuckles at this.

 

\---

 

Keith spends the rest of the evening folding cranes and listening to the Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief audiobook on YouTube. At chapter 13 (I Plunge to My Death), his fingers begin to cramp. Counting forty-seven cranes laying across his legs and the sheets, he decides to call it a night by rounding the number to an even fifty before falling asleep.

 

The last thing he thinks to himself before he drifts off is, _ I’m not allowing myself to get any closer to Lance McClain. I’m already in the goddamn danger zone of  _ too fucking close.

  
  
  
  
  



	7. Category Two Hurricane

132… 133… 134… 136

 

“Fuck. That’s a lot of paper cranes,” Keith marks down five more tallies on a page of loose leaf paper. Multicolored origami birds are gathering in a janitor’s pail beneath his bed. As he takes another sheet and begins to fold crane number 137, lightning flashes outside the window. He barely takes notice, pausing only to mark down another tally. The clock on the wall reads 11:43 PM. For some reason, he can’t sleep.

 

\---

 

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… in

1… 2… 3… 4… hold

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… out

 

Lance clutches at the thin fabric of his shirt, his hand over his chest, and breathes, shaky and shallow, though still grounding. A clap of thunder rumbles in the distance. He whips his head towards the window. His breath catches once again.  _ It’s too late for this shit. _

 

_ \--- _

 

Matt practically clings to Shiro in a tight hug. Once they break apart, he leads the other to a table for two in the back of the cafeteria, next to the windows. He pulls out chairs, cringing slightly at the sound of the plastic legs scraping against the floor, before smiling at Shiro as he takes a seat.

 

“I… it’s great to see you after so long,” Matt runs a hand through his wavy hair and pushes his round glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. “I’m glad we have a chance to catch up.”

 

“It’s pretty neat that we ran into each other, quite literally, too,” Shiro crosses his ankles and leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I mean, not the physically running into each other part, just the… you know that I mean.”

 

Matt smile turns humorous.

 

“So what’s the deal been with you? How’d you become a research doctor?” Shiro asks.

 

“I told you about my little sibling, Katie, well, Pidge now, but they weren’t out then…”

 

“Yeah. Back at the Garrison…”

 

Matt glances out the window. Stormclouds are gathering high above the office buildings. “Anyway, to get back to my story,” he looks back towards the other man, “when we were overseas, they were diagnosed with stage IIA osteosarcoma. Bone cancer.”

 

Shiro mouths a silent, “oh,” but doesn’t say anything.

 

Smiling as he continues, Matt adds, “they survived. Of course. But nobody told me they were even sick until I got back. They were in chemotherapy at the time and had their arm amputated. Maybe you two can talk prostheses sometimes.”

 

The taller man chuckles, “maybe.” He eyes crinkle. Matt can’t help but smile a bit more, too.

 

“Anyway… while they were being treated, I realized that I kinda had a knack for biology - oncology to be specific. So I thought, ‘hey, I can help a lot of people by working in this field, more than if I just became an IT or something.’ And then I got my masters. Now I’m working as an associate. Pidge started working as a lab assistant for me and my team last year.”

 

“The genius Holt siblings, huh?” Shiro smiles. “I’m glad that you found something you like doing a lot. And that you’re doing good in the world and all that.”

 

“I’m studying for a Ph.D. now,” Matt adds.

 

“So you’re not actually a doctor, are you?”

 

“ _ Yet,”  _ Matt enunciated.

 

Shiro smirks.

 

“But really, you’re one to talk, Mr. Firefighter. You talk like I’m the only one helping the world. How’s your job been, my dear humble civil servant?”

 

“It’s pretty hard work. The hours suck. But yeah, I’m helping people, though, so I love it.”

 

\---

 

“Alazne or ‘Lance’ Alvarez McClain in room number 416,” thirteen-centimeter high heels click to a halt on the polished floor, stopping in front of the reception desk. The person balancing in the Mary Jane stilettos easily rests her elbows on the meter-and-half high counter top. “My name is Charo Alvarez. I am his aunt..”

 

“You know where his room is, correct?”

 

“Yes.”

 

She walks through the set of swinging double doors, her long dark hair swishing gracefully down her back. As she reaches room 416, she knocks once and waits. Lance’s face falls ever so slightly as he answers the door.  _ You're too tall and wheelchair-less to be Keith. _

 

“You  _ that _ happy to see me, huh, Alazne?” she asks as she holds her arms out for a hug.

 

Lance’s face brightens considerably as he practically collapses into her arms, getting a faceful of her thin sweater and rosewater perfume.

 

“Sorry I’m late. You know how it is with me and your father. I’m decided to steer clear this time around.” She beams at him as he invites her into the small room.

 

“Yeah. It’s fine. Thank’s for visiting me.” Lance sits cross-legged on his bed, picking at his wool socks.

 

Aunt Charo rummages through her bag, pulling out a stack of small, worn, paperback books. “Of course, of course, darling, how could I not come?” She hands Lance the books before taking the seat next to him. “I got these at the place around the corner from my house. You know the one. I hope you like them.”

 

After examining the titles carefully in his hands, he looks up to smile at her again. “The last ones were really good. Do you want them back?” He asks as he carefully places the new books -  _ Of Mice and Men  _ by John Steinbeck,  _ Nineteen-Eighty Four  _ by George Orwell,  _ Emma  _ by Jane Austen, and the lone hardcover,  _ Magnus Chase and the Hammer of Thor  _ by Rick Riordan, on the bed before rolling over to retrieve  _ Fahrenheit 451  _ by Ray Bradbury,  _ Tuesdays With Morrie  _ by Mitch Albom,  _ War and Peace  _ by Leo Tolstoy,  _ The Devil Wears Prada by  _ Lauren Weisberger, and  _ Alexander Hamilton _ by Ron Chernow from the nightstand. He gathers the tall stack in his arms, holding the five titles out to his aunt.

 

“I don’t need them back,” she assures. “They were all free.”

 

Lance merely shrugs as he places the books back on the table. “I guess I’ll give ‘em to Cat in room 410 if you really don’t want them back.”

 

“Is Cat your friend? Have you made friends since last time?”

 

“No. I mean… I guess she's my friend? Sometimes? She reads a lot of books.” Lance says offhandedly. “How’ve your projects been boing?” He asks with more enthusiasm.

 

“They’re coming along nicely. Don’t worry about your starving artist aunt, Alazne, honey.”

 

“I wasn’t worrying, just curious,” he protests. “And why do you still call me Alazne? Everyone calls me Lance now.”

 

“You don’t seem to mind, do you?” She smiles knowingly at him.

 

The door swings open, followed by a pair of black Vans. Allura flicks her hair out of her face and looks up, halting as her eyes pass over Charo.

 

“Is it a bad time, Lance?” Allura asks, her gaze still on his aunt.

“Oh no… not at all… Dr. … Altea,” Charo squints at the ID clipped to the breast pocket of Allura’s jacket.

 

Lance smirks behind his hand,  _ ahh, the kindred souls who must put up with yours truly. And, for some reason, are the most badass mother hens one could ever ask for. _

 

Charo grins as she introduces herself. “I’m Charo Alvarez, Lance’s aunt. You are his doctor, yes?”

 

“Yes. Um. Lance… yeah… Lance is my patient.” Allura seems to be fighting a blush.

 

Lance, knowing Allura malfunctions around pretty girls (except herself, as she, Allura herself, is a pretty girl who knows it), impishly decides outloud, “while you ladies exchange numbers or something, Ima go visit by dear friend Keith in the other room.”

 

“That little shit,” Charo mutters affectionately after him.

 

“Grac i as, Alazne,” she whispers alternatively to him as he passes him on his way out.

 

“So what is your number, Ms. Alvarez? For… uh… doctor reasons.” Allura has somewhat regained her composure.

 

\---

 

Lance knocks three times before inviting himself into Keith’s room. “So why  _ are _ you always folding these paper birds?”

 

“‘M bored,” Keith chucks yet another crane (number 128) into the crane bucket.

 

“What about Percy Jackson? I’ve endured 100 whole minutes of your tacky alien show,” Lance practically pouts.

 

“Hey! I’ve just finished  _ The Lightning Thief _ . That audiobook is  _ ten hours long. _ ”

 

“How’d ya like it?”

 

“It was alright, I guess.”

 

“Just alright? That book is a work of art.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. It was pretty good.”

 

Lance looks triumphant as he sits down next to Keith in the narrow bed. “But now I gotta watch more aliens to get you to read  _ The Sea of Monsters,  _ right?”

 

“Yup.”

Lance grabs the computer and passes it to Keith. “I hope this crap gets better.”

 

\---

Another two hours (six episodes) pass by. Lance eventually leaves a half-asleep Keith, gently closing the laptop and placing it on the table. He runs into Allura on his way out.

 

“So, did you get her number?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

 

“Yes,” she says tightly. “Now- I need to go over your treatment plan with you.”

 

“I thought you weren’t treating me anymore. Why haven’t you given up yet?”

 

“We weren’ treating yout, but now there’s a new procedure available. It’s been successful in trials with cases like yours. I have consent from your parents.”

Lance pulls a face. “So what if it’s  _ worked  _ in trials with cases like mine. What does that even mean? What’s this magical new treatment gonna do? Extend my life for a few more months? Cost thousands of more dollars that my family certainly  _ doesn’t  _ fucking  _ have _ ? Give everyone even more false hope? I think we’ve all had enough of that.” His voice is steady, controlled. Blue meets blue as he holds Allura’s gaze.

 

She says nothing.

 

“Why am I even still alive, Allura? I hurt. Everything fucking hurts.  _ Everyone  _ is hurting because of me. Just make it stop already. There will always be  _ another treatment,  _ won’t there? You know that. But you also know that I’m a hopeless case, right? Have been for more than a year. Please just  _ stop  _ already.”

 

“You know that your young friend Pidge had stage II osteosarcoma, yes?” Allura grips his shoulders, steering his towards his bed. She sits him down. “And that they seemed like a hopeless case, even after the amputation and chemotherapy. But they never gave up. And no, it’s not like willpower alone decides your fate, but it helps. I haven’t been doing this for too long, but I know that mindset helps. Lance, your friend is living proof of that. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and let people help you. The treatment could extend your life by _two_ _years_. Which would give us time to develop more options. So, when your pity-party is over, I need you to sign these forms. You’ll be eighteen in eighteen days. We need your consent to do this, too.” She places the stack of papers on the end of Lance’s bed. “You are going to live, Lance. And you have not given up on yourself, yet. Your new friend Keith is a pretty clear testament to that.”

 

“You’re not my psychiatrist, Allura. Get out of my room,” he practically snarls as he turns away. Tears begin to form in his eyes.  _ But I really wish I had. Given up. It would be so much easier that way. If only I didn't care anymore. _

 

\---

 

The television in one of the many deserted waiting rooms in playing the eight o’clock news. “ _... a category two hurricane is expected to make landfall in the Orlando area on the west coast of Florida…. Stay tuned for more after the break.”_

 

_ \--- _

 

_ I’m a mess, aren’t I?  _ Lance asks himself. The clicks shut behind his back.   _ Shit. I need to apologise to Allura…  _ He stares out the window, imagining that rather than menacing storm clouds blanketing the city, there are bright stars glowing above.  _ I’m so… fucking …  _ He traces raindrop tracks down the smooth surface of the plexiglass. The incessant pitter patter outside calms him ever so slightly.

 

And then the unexplainable, uncontrollable anger wells up inside him again, and he kicks something. Hard. I turns out to be the bedside desk. “Oops,” he mutters to himself offhandedly as a miniature glass vase with a single wilting red rose topples off the wood surface. Never one to display his emotions violently, the outburst scares him. Before he realises, though, he’s almost completely dissociated with the situation, and he's moving slowly to pick up the shattered pieces.

 

\---

 

Keith hears a crash in the other room. It’s coming from behind him.  _ Lance’s room.  _ Before he really registers what he’s doing, he’s maneuvered himself into the chair. With only one functioning arm, he manages to, with difficulties, wheel himself to the next room. Turning the knob and opening the door without thinking to knock first, he sticks his head inside the threshold.

 

“Lance?” Lance is crouched on the floor on the opposite side of the be, balancing on three limbs, gathering shards of glass in his bare hands. Keith wheels himself into the room. As he rounds the bed, he sees red. There are multiple careless cuts dripping blood down Lance’s fingers. He doesn’t even seem to notice.

 

“Hola, Kogane,” the blue-eyed boy’s voice is dull and flat. Keith just watches, confounded and concerned. Lance eventually stands, holding the fragmented remnants of a small flower vase cupped in his bare palms.

 

“Lance, are you okay?”

 

“Yeah. I’m all good. Buenas noches.” He says dismissively.

 

“I’m calling the nurse’s station to help with the rest of the glass.”

 

“No, no. Please, just let me deal with it.”

 

“Lance, just let me call a nurse.”

 

“Since when have you given a shit, honestly. Please leave now.”

 

Keith presses the “call nurse’s station” button. Lance glares. “I’m seriously alright. I really am  _ fine _ .”

 

“I never said you weren’t.” Keith sighs.  _ Shit. I sound like Shiro now, don’t I? _

 

Lance grabs the handles on the back of the wheelchair. His hands are still covered in dried blood, but he doesn't seem to notice. “I’ll wheel you back to your room. It usually takes them a few minutes to send someone.”

 

“Okay. Thanks.”

 

\---

That night, after he’s cried his eyes out onto his pillowcase and somehow managed to fall asleep in the middle of a goddamn hurricane, Lance dreams of home. Where the summers are hot and the breeze is salty and tangerine orchards are the only noteworthy things within miles and miles.

 

It’s a very small town of only about a thousand people. The high school is shared with two neighboring towns. Everyone there is either old or old before their time. Like mam á . Like pap á . (Like Keith and Shiro, too.)

 

Lance was one of the few exceptions. One who managed to both stick around and stay young for as long as possible. Quick with a smile, a laugh, an empty boast. He lived large and fast, yet fearful, acting as though everyone he wanted to like him actually did. And it worked. Mostly. People noticed him. He kissed some girls (and one boy) in middle school. He was always surrounded by the ‘in’ crowd.

In his dream, Lance is sitting in a gnarled old tree. The ocean breeze blows through the leaves and though his hair. Static cuts through the electronic beat playing through a cheap plastic radio that rests between his knees. He rotates the antenna until the white noise fades out. Maria and Rory as running in circles, chasing each other around the gardening hose. Rory looks much younger than Lance knows him to be. Maria still looks about eight.

 

It’s a peaceful, blissful, nostalgic dream. Taking the radio in his hands and dangling his feet down, Lance silently soaks the scene in. 

 

Eventually, Mam á steps out of the backdoor, Papá behind her. She calls her son down from his perch. He throws the radio down onto a mound of soft dirt before jumping down himself.

 

As Lance wakes up, he feels as though he’s been submerged in water, and now be can finally breathe air. To think that something so simple could make him think of, wish for, and miss something so much. Raging winds rip past his window. Rain pours down. A few tears leak from the corners of his eyes.

 

_ I just wanna go home. _

 

He fumbles around on his desk for a pen, then takes the packet of paper. Without even reading the fine print and asterisk signs, he signs his name, looping and mostly illegible, on every single  “sign here” line. He glances at the clock, taken back for a heartbeat as he reads, 2:31 AM. He could’ve sworn it was the morning. The perpetually dark sky must be confusing him. He tries for sleep. It doesn’t seem to want to come again, so he lies awake, lulled by the downpour outside.

 


	8. intermission

 

Lance awakens to a violent crash of thunder that rattles the walls of his room. Everything shakes slightly, shivering in reaction to the deafening sound. A bolt of lightning brightens the entire sky, leaving him blinking in the dark. A howl of wind rips past trees, through brittle leaves and between buildings as it rages on outside the window.

 

He sits up in bed. The thin hospital sheets slip off his body.  _ Why don’t they have functioning blackout curtains here?  _ Lance wonders as the sky blinks alight once again. Rain is still streaming down the single Acrylite pane. He figures that the relentless downpour must be running rivers in the wide city streets, overflowing the narrow gutters.

 

Sinking back down, he closes his eyes and attempts to sleep once again. But between the brilliant flashing lights and the powerful sound of thunder rolling through the thick clouds, sleep refuses to come. He lies awake until the noise outside calms. By the time the clock reads 3:14 AM, the storm has miraculously blown over. Lance sinks down in the mattress, yet he still can’t seem to get a wink of sleep.

 

He slides out of bed, blinking away the sudden dizzy spell before he pulls the cord on the curtains, and blue light streams into the blackness. Blue light, he realizes. Not amber and yellow-orange, but deep azure. The streetlamps, in what appears to be the entire city, have gone dark. All of the glass towers and apartment complex windows reflect only the night sky. A clear night sky full of stars. Stars.  _ The power has gone out.  _ He comprehends with a start.  _ And I can see the stars. All of them. _

 

Lance runs across his room and steps into the hallway. The only lights illuminating the corridor are the “EXIT” signs glowing in neon green. Figuring that backup generators must be running everyone’s life support and the lights in the operating rooms and that it mustn’t be a great ordeal for the hospital that the whole city’s lost power, he heads straight for the door to the only stairwell with roof access and sprints up the stairs.  _ The stars. I’ve gotta see the stars. _

 

Throwing the heavy metal door open, thanking all higher powers that he knows of that the thing hasn’t been locked, Lance runs out onto the wet gravel that covers the rooftop. He looks out and sees the Milky Way lying low in the sky, partially obscured by the city skyline. It’s still faint, and his eyes are still adjusting to the vastness and darkness night, but  _ he can see it.  _

 

He’s seen the stars many times before. Of course he has. The Alvarez-McClain family owns a small telescope, an antique model from at least three generations ago. Over the summer before eighth grade, Rosa let Lance stay up every weekend night to point the glass lens up at the clear sky. Many nights, he’d sit in the backyard, wrapped in a soft quilt and sipping cold lemonade, until he fell asleep in the grass, surrounded by yellow fireflies winking in the lawn all around him.

 

And now, he’s back. He’s back in his element. The entire city is pitch black. The only light for miles and miles around is the brilliant glimmer of the constellations and the half-moon reflecting gentle white light. He absorbs the scene for a few heartbeats before turning on his heels and running back down the stairs.  _ Keith has got to see this. _

 

It’s a dumb idea. Keith can’t walk. Lance probably won’t be able to carry him. Still, He finds himself knocking on the door to room 418, hoping that his grumpy neighbor isn’t a hardcore deep sleeper. 

 

He’s not, apparently.

 

“What the actual fucking fuck, Lance?” 

 

The door opens to reveal Keith, on all fours, with one arm reaching up to grasp the door handle. His feathery dark hair sticks up off his head in every direction as though it’s trying to get as far away from his skull as possible. A single curl lays flat against his forehead and hangs down over his left eye. Lance thinks that it would probably be an endearing sight if only Keith were not looking ready for murder.

 

“You are coming with me,” Lance declares, retrieving the wheelchair and moving to drag Keith into it.

 

“It’s three in the morning, what in shit’s name could be so important...” Keith replies in a deadpan, still looking quite menacing as he trails off. 




 

Lance, by some phenomenal feat of nature, manages to carry Keith on his back from the elevator on the fifth floor, down the hallway, up the stairs, and up to the roof.

 

He stumbles out into the starlight.

 

“Now look up,” Keith is still clinging awkwardly to Lance’s shirt. He looks up.

 

“So… uh… what’s the big deal?” Keith tries not to sound mildly pissed about this whole ordeal.

 

“The stars, duh. You can see the Milky Way from here. He points, “look.” 

 

Keith slackens his grip on Lance, slowly sliding off his back. Lance lets him down onto the damp gravel, bending his knees and leaning back slightly.

 

As Keith settles on the rough, wet stones, his legs splayed awkwardly in front of his body, he looks up once again. It is, he becomes aware of, a fairly stunning sight. Stars twinkling over a silent city of hundreds of thousands of people.

 

“Wow,” he mouths after a few moments.

 

Lance looks at him and beams. “It’s totally worth it, right?” He asks as he drops down and lays on his back, ignoring how the uneven and recently rained on surface digs into his spine and makes his shirt uncomfortably clammy.

 

“Right?” he repeats, sounding almost unsure, hoping that Keith does truly share his sentiments about the whole thing.

 

“Yeah, I guess this is pretty cool. Thanks for dragging me out here.” Keith assures Lance, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant as he says this. His eyes haven’t left the sky. Lance can swear that he can see the tiniest of smiles pry on to Keith’s lips.

 

His cerulean eyes glitter as they mirror the sable sky. An excited smile of his own lightens his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end of what's written
> 
>  
> 
> and i'm not going to finish this
> 
>  
> 
> very sorry

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment! If you want.
> 
> I love feedback so much.


End file.
